THE 

LAST  SHOT 


FREDERICK   PAL 


nn 


BOOKS    BY   FREDERICK    PALMER 

PUBLISHED    BY    CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

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THE  LAST  SHOT 


By 

FREDERICK  PALMER 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK     :::::::     1914 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  BY 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Published  April,  1914 


TO  THE  READER 

This  story  of  war  grew  out  of  my  experience  in 
many  wars.  I  have  been  under  fire  without  fighting; 
known  the  comradeship  of  arms  without  bearing  arms, 
and  the  hardships  and  the  humors  of  the  march  with 
only  an  observer's  incentive.  A  singular  career,  begun 
by  chance,  was  pursued  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  in 
the  study  of  the  greatest  drama  which  the  earth 
stages.  Whether  watching  a  small  force  of  white 
regulars  disciplining  a  primitive  people,  or  the  complex 
tactics  of  huge  army  against  huge  army;  whether 
watching  war  in  the  large  or  in  the  small,  I  have  found 
the  same  basic  human  qualities  in  the  white  heat 
of  conflict  working  out  the  same  illusions,  heroisms, 
tragedies,  and  comedies. 

The  fellowship  of  campaigning  made  the  cause  of 
the  force  that  I  accompanied  mine  for  the  time  being. 
Thus,  one  who  settles  in  the  town  of  A  absorbs  its 
local  feeling  of  rivalry  against  the  town  of  B  in  ath 
letic  games  or  character  of  citizenship.  To  A,  B  is 
never  quite  sportsmanlike;  B  is  provincial  and  bigoted 
and  generally  inferior.  But  settle  in  B  and  your 
prejudices  reverse  their  favor  from  A  to  B. 

Yet  in  the  midst  of  battle,  with  the  detachment  of  a 
non-combatant  marvelling  at  the  irony  of  two  lines  of 
men  engaged  in  an  effort  at  mutual  extermination,  I 
have  caught  myself  thinking  with  the  other  side.  I 
knew  why  my  side  was  busy  at  killing.  Why  was  the 
other?  For  the  same  reasons  as  ours. 


394110 


vi  TO  THE   READER 

I  was  seeing  humanity  against  humanity.  A  man 
killed  was  a  man  killed,  courage  was  courage,  sacrifice 
was  sacrifice,  romance  was  romance,  a  heart-broken 
mother  was  a  heart-broken  mother,  a  village  burned 
was  a  village  burned,  regardless  of  race  or  nation. 
Every  war  became  a  story  in  a  certain  set  form:  the 
rise  of  the  war  passion;  the  conflict;  victory  and  de 
feat;  and  then  peace,  in  joyous  relief,  which  the 
nations  enjoyed  before  they  took  the  trouble  to  fight 
for  it. 

But  such  thoughts  have  been  a  familiar  theme  to 
the  poet,  the  novelist,  the  dramatist,  the  satirist,  the 
dreamer,  and  the  peace  propagandist,  while  the  world 
goes  on  arming.  In  want  of  their  talent,  I  offer  ex 
perience  of  the  monstrous  object  of  their  gibes  and 
imagination.  To  me,  the  old  war  novels  have  the 
atmosphere  of  smoke  powder  and  antiquated  tactics 
which  still  survived  when  I  went  on  my  first  cam 
paign  sixteen  years  ago.  These  classic  masterpieces 
endure  through  their  genius;  the  excuse  of  any  plodder 
who  chooses  their  theme  to-day  is  that  he  deals  with 
the  material  of  to-day. 

Methods  of  light  and  of  motive  power  have  not 
changed  more  rapidly  in  the  forty-odd  years  since  the 
last  great  European  war  than  the  soldier's  weapons 
and  his  work.  With  all  the  symbols  of  economic  im 
provement  the  public  is  familiar,  while  usually  it 
thinks  of  war  in  the  old  symbols  for  want  of  familiar 
ity  with  the  new.  My  aim  is  to  express  not  only  war 
as  fought  to-day,  soldiers  of  to-day  under  the  fire  of 
arms  of  to-day,  but  also  the  effects  of  war  in  the  nth 
degree  of  modern  organization  and  methods  on  a  group 
of  men  and  women,  free  in  its  realism  from  the  wild 
improbabilities  of  some  latter-day  novelists  who  have 


TO  THE  READER  vii 

given  us  wars  in  the  air  or  regaled  us  with  the  decima 
tion  of  armies  by  explosives  dropped  from  dirigibles 
or  their  asphyxiation  by  noxious  gases  compounded  by 
the  hero  of  the  tale. 

The  Russo-Japanese  and  the  Balkan  campaigns, 
particular  in  their  nature,  gave  me  useful  impressions, 
but  not  the  scene  for  my  purpose.  The  world  must 
think  of  those  wars  comparatively  as  second-rate  and 
only  partially  illustrative,  when  its  fearful  curiosity 
and  more  fearful  apprehension  centre  on  the  possibil 
ity  of  the  clash  of  arms  between  the  enormous  forces 
of  two  first-class  European  land-powers,  with  their  su 
preme  training  and  precision  in  arms.  What  would 
such  a  war  mean  in  reality  to  the  soldiers  engaged? 
What  the  play  of  human  elements?  What  form  the  new 
symbols?  Therefore  have  I  laid  my  scene  in  a  small 
section  of  a  European  frontier,  and  the  time  the  present. 

Identify  your  combatants,  some  friends  insist. 
Make  the  Italians  fight  the  Austrians  or  the  French 
fight  the  Germans.  As  a  spectator  of  wars,  under  the 
spell  of  the  growing  cosmopolitanism  that  makes  man 
kind  more  and  more  akin,  I  could  not  see  it  in  that 
way  and  be  true  to  my  experience.  My  soldiers  exist 
for  my  purpose  only  as  human  beings.  Race  preju 
dices  they  have.  Race  prejudice  is  one  of  the  factors 
of  war.  But  make  the  prejudice  English,  Italian,  Ger 
man,  Russian,  or  French  and  there  is  the  temptation 
for  reader  and  author  to  forget  the  story  of  men  as 
men  and  war  as  war.  Even  as  in  the  long  campaign 
in  Manchuria  I  would  see  a  battle  simply  as  an  argu 
ment  to  the  death  between  little  fellows  in  short  khaki 
blouses  and  big  fellows  in  long  gray  coats,  so  I  see  the 
Browns  and  the  Grays  in  "The  Last  Shot"  take  the 
field. 


viii  TO  THE  READER 

But,  though  the  scene  is  imaginary,  the  characters 
are  from  life.  Their  actions  and  their  sayings  are 
those  of  men  whom  I  have  studied  under  the  stress  of 
danger  and  sudden  emergency.  The  delightful,  boy 
ish  confidence  of  Eugene  Aronson  has  been  at  my  elbow 
in  a  charge;  Feller  I  knew  in  the  tropics  as  an  outcast 
who  shared  my  rations;  Dellarme's  last  words  I  heard 
from  a  dying  captain;  the  philosophy  of  Hugo  Mallin 
is  no  less  familiar  than  the  bragging  of  Pilzer  or  the 
transformation  of  Stransky,  who  whistled  a  wedding- 
march  as  he  pumped  bullets  at  the  enemy.  In  Lan- 
stron  we  have  a  type  of  the  modern  officer;  in  the 
elder  Fragini  a  type  of  the  soldier  of  another  day. 
Each  marches  in  his  place  and  plays  his  part  in  the 
sort  of  spectacle  that  I  have  often  watched.  If  there 
be  no  particular  hero,  then  I  can  only  say,  in  confi 
dence  behind  the  scenes,  that  I  have  found  no  one 
man,  however  heroic  in  the  martial  imagination  of  his 
country,  to  be  a  particular  hero  in  fact.  Take,  for  ex 
ample,  our  trembling  little  Peterkin,  who  won  the 
bronze  cross  for  courage. 

As  for  Marta  and  Minna,  they  speak  for  another 
element — for  a  good  half  of  the  world's  population  that 
does  not  bear  arms.  In  a  siege  once  I  had  glimpses 
of  women  under  fire  and  I  learned  that  bravery  is  not 
an  exclusively  masculine  trait.  The  game  of  solitaire? 
Well,  it  occurred  in  a  house  in  the  midst  of  bursting 
shells.  But  the  part  that  Marta  plays?  Is  it  extrava 
ganza?  Not  injwar.  The  author  sees  it  as  something 
very  real. 

FREDERICK  PALMER. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  A  SPECK  IN  THE  SKY 3 

II.  TEN  YEARS  LATER 16 

III.  OURS  AND  THEIRS 24 

IV.  THE  DIVIDENDS  OF  POWER 30 

V.  OFF  TO  THE  FRONTIER 34 

VI.  THE  SECOND  PROPHECY 43 

VII.  TIMES  HAVE  CHANGED 56 

VIII.  THANKS  TO  A  BUMBLEBEE 67 

IX.  A  SUNDAY  MORNING  CALL 72 

X.  A  LUNCHEON  AT  THE  GALLANDS'  ....  85 

XI.  MARTA  HEARS  FELLER'S  STORY    ....  91 

XII.  A  CRISIS  WITHIN  A  CRISIS 102 

XIII.  BREAKING  A  PAPER-KNIFE 118 

XIV.  IN  PARTOW'S  OFFICE 129 

XV.  CLOSE  TO  THE  WHITE  POSTS 138 

XVI.  DELLARME'S  MEN  GET  A  MASCOT      ...  142 

XVII.  A  SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  TOWN      ....  148 

XVIII.  THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE 157 

XIX.  RECEIVING  THE  CHARGE 167 

XX.  MARTA'S  FIRST  GLIMPSE  OF  WAR       .     .     .  180 

XXI.  SHE  CHANGES  HER  MIND   ......  193 

XXII.  FLOWERS  FOR  THE  WOUNDED 200 

ix 


x  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIII.  STRANSKY  FIGHTS  ALONE 204 

XXIV.  THE  MAKING  OF  A  HERO 217 

XXV.  THE  TERRIBLE  NIGHT 223 

XXVI.  FELLER  Is  TEMPTED 234 

XXVII.  HAND  TO  HAND 242 

XXVIII.  AN  APPEAL  TO  PARTOW 254 

XXIX.  THROUGH  THE  VENEER 261 

XXX.  MARTA  MEETS  HUGO 279 

XXXI.  UNTO  C^SAR 284 

XXXII.  TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN 290 

XXXIII.  IN  FELLER'S  PLACE 324 

XXXIV.  THREE  VOICES .337 

XXXV.  MRS.  GALLAND  INSISTS 343 

XXXVI.  MARKING  TIME 352 

XXXVII.  THUMBS  DOWN  FOR  BOUCHARD     ....  357 

XXXVIII.  HUNTING  GHOSTS 364 

XXXIX.  A  CHANGE  OF  PLAN 374 

XL.  WITH  FRACASSE'S  MEN 387 

XLI.  WITH  FELLER  AND  STRANSKY 403 

XLII.  THE  RAM 408 

XLIII.  JOVE'S  ISOLATION 420 

XLIV.  TURNING  THE  TABLES 439 

XLV.  THE  RETREAT 462 

XL VI.  THE  LAST  SHOT 495 

XL VII.  THE  PEACE  OF  WISDOM                           .     .  508 


THE  LAST  SHOT 


THE    LAST    SHOT 


A  SPECK  IN  THE  SKY 

IT  was  Marta  who  first  saw  the  speck  in  the  sky. 
Her  outcry  and  her  bound  from  her  seat  at  the  tea- 
table  brought  her  mother  and  Colonel  Westerling  after 
her  onto  the  lawn,  where  they  became  motionless  figures, 
screening  their  eyes  with  their  hands.  The  newest  and 
most  wonderful  thing  in  the  world  at  the  time  was  this 
speck  appearing  above  the  irregular  horizon  of  the  Brown 
range,  in  view  of  a  landscape  that  centuries  of  civiliza 
tion  had  fertilized  and  cultivated  and  formed. 

At  the  base  of  the  range  ran  a  line  of  white  stone 
posts,  placed  by  international  commissions  of  surveyors 
to  the  nicety  of  an  inch's  variation.  In  the  very  di 
rection  of  the  speck's  flight  a  spur  of  foot-hills  extended 
into  the  plain  that  stretched  away  to  the  Gray  range, 
distinct  at  the  distance  of  thirty  miles  in  the  bright 
afternoon  light.  Faithful  to  their  part  in  refusing  to 
climb,  the  white  posts  circled  around  the  spur,  hugging 
the  levels. 

In  the  lap  of  the  spur  was  La  Tir,  the  old  town,  and 
on  the  other  side  of  the  boundary  lay  South  La  Tir,  the 
new  town.  Through  both  ran  the  dusty  ribbon  of  a 
road,  drawn  straight  across  the  plain  and  over  the 
glistening  thread  of  a  river.  On  its  way  to  the  pass  of 
the  Brown  range  it  skirted  the  garden  of  the  Gallands, 
which  rose  in  terraces  to  a  seventeenth-century  house 
overlooking  the  old  town  from  its  outskirts.  They  were 
such  a  town,  such  a  road,  such  a  landscape  as  you  may 

3 


4  THE  LAST  SHOT 

see  on  many  European  frontiers.  The  Christian  people 
who  lived  in  the  region  were  like  the  Christian  people 
you  know  if  you  look  for  the  realities  of  human  nature 
under  the  surface  differences  of  language  and  habits. 

Beyond  the  house  rose  the  ruins  of  a  castle,  its  tower 
still  intact.  Marta  always  referred  to  the  castle  as 
the  baron;  for  in  her  girlhood  she  had  a  way  of  personi 
fying  all  inanimate  things.  If  the  castle  walls  were 
covered  with  hoar  frost,  she  said  that  the  baron  was 
shivering;  if  the  wind  tore  around  the  tower,  she  said 
that  the  baron  was  groaning  over  the  democratic  ten 
dencies  of  the  time.  On  such  a  summer  afternoon  as 
this,  the  baron  was  growing  old  gracefully,  at  peace 
with  his  enemies. 

Centuries  older  than  the  speck  in  the  sky  was  the 
baron;  but  the  pass  road  was  many  more,  countless 
more,  centuries  older  than  he.  It  had  been  a  trail  for 
tribes  long  before  Roman  legions  won  a  victory  in  the 
pass,  which  was  acclaimed  an  imperial  triumph.  To 
hold  the  pass  was  to  hold  the  range.  All  the  blood 
shed  there  would  make  a  red  river,  inundating  the  plain. 
Marta,  a  maker  of  pictures,  saw  how  the  legions, 
brown,  sinewy,  lean  aliens,  looked  in  their  close  ranks. 
They  were  no  less  real  to  her  imagination  than  the 
infantry  of  the  last  war  thirty  years  ago,  or  the  Cru 
saders  who  came  that  way,  or  the  baron  in  person  and  his 
shaggy-bearded,  uncouth,  ignorant  ruffians  who  were 
their  own  moral  law,  leaving  their  stronghold  to  plunder 
the  people  of  the  fertile  plain  of  the  fruits  of  their  toil. 

Stone  axe,  spear  and  bow,  javelin  and  broadsword, 
blunderbuss  and  creaking  cannon — all  the  weapons  of 
all  stages  in  the  art  of  war — had  gone  trooping  past. 
Now  had  come  the  speck  in  the  sky,  straight  on,  like 
some  projectile  born  of  the  ether. 

"  Beside  the  old  baron,  we  are  parvenus,"  Marta 
would  say.  "  And  what  a  parvenu  the  baron  would  have 
been  to  the  Roman  aristocrat!" 

"Our  family  is  old  enough — none  older  in  the  prov- 


A  SPECK  IN  THE  SKY  5 

ince!"  Mrs.  Galland  would  reply.  "Marta,  how  your 
mind  does  wander!  I'd  get  a  headache  just  contemplat 
ing  the  things  you  are  able  to  think  of  in  five  minutes." 

The  first  Galland  had  built  a  house  on  the  land  that 
his  king  had  given  him  for  one  of  the  most  brilliant  feats 
of  arms  in  the  history  of  the  pass.  He  had  the  advan 
tage  of  the  baron  in  that  he  could  read  and  write, 
though  with  difficulty.  Marta  had  an  idea  that  he  was 
not  presentable  at  a  tea- table;  however,  he  must  have 
been  more  so  than  the  baron,  Vho,  she  guessed,  would 
have  grabbed  all  the  cakes  on  the  plate  as  a  sheer  matter 
of  habit  in  taking  what  he  wanted  unless  a  stronger  than 
he  interfered. 

Even  the  tower,  raised  to  the  glory  of  an  older  family 
whose  descendants,  if  any  survived,  were  unaware  of 
their  lineage,  had  become  known  as  the  Galland  tower. 
The  Gallands  were  rooted  in  the  soil  of  the  frontier; 
they  were  used  to  having  war's  hot  breath  blow  past  their 
door;  they  were  at  home  in  the  language  and  customs 
of  two  peoples;  theirs  was  a  peculiar  tradition,  which 
Marta  had  absorbed  with  her  first  breath.  Every  de 
tail  of  her  circumscribed  existence  reminded  her  that  she 
was  a  Galland. 

Town  and  plain  and  range  were  the  first  vista  of  land 
scape  that  she  had  seen;  doubtless  they  would  be  the 
last.  Meanwhile,  there  was  the  horizon.  She  was  par 
ticularly  fond  of  looking  at  it.  If  you  are  seventeen, 
with  a  fanciful  mind,  you  can  find  much  information 
not  in  histories  or  encyclopaedias  or  the  curricula  of 
schools  in  the  horizon. 

There  she  had  learned  that  the  Roman  aristocrat  had 
turned  his  thumb  down  to  a  lot  of  barbarian  captives 
because  he  had  a  fit  of  indigestion,  and  the  next  day, 
when  his  digestion  was  better,  he  had  scattered  coins 
among  barbarian  children;  that  Napoleon,  who  had 
also  gone  over  the  pass  road,  was  a  pompous,  fat  little 
man,  who  did  not  always  wipe  his  upper  lip  clean  of 
snuff  when  he  was  on  a  campaign;  that  the  baron's 


6  THE  LAST  SHOT 

youngest  daughter  had  lost  her  eyesight  from  a  bodkin 
thrust  for  telling  her  sister,  who  had  her  father's  temper, 
that  she  was  developing  a  double  chin. 

For  the  people  of  Marta's  visions  were  humanly  real 
to  her,  and  as  such  she  liked  and  understood  them.  If 
the  first  Galland  were  half  a  robber,  to  disguise  the  fact 
because  he  was  her  ancestor  was  not  playing  fair.  It 
made  him  only  a  lay  figure  of  romance. 

One  or  two  afternoons  a  week  Colonel  Hedworth 
Westerling,  commander  of  the  regimental  post  of  the 
Grays  on  the  other  side  of  the  white  posts,  stretched  his 
privilege  of  crossing  the  frontier  and  appeared  for  tea 
at  the  Gallands'.  It  meant  a  pleasant  half-hour  break 
ing  a  long  walk,  a  relief  from  garrison  surroundings. 
Favored  in  mind  and  person,  favored  in  high  places,  he 
had  become  a  colonel  at  thirty-two.  People  with  fixed 
ideas  as  to  the  appearance  of  a  soldier  said  that  he  looked 
every  inch  the  commander.  He  was  tall,  strong-built, 
his  deep,  broad  chest  suggesting  powerful  energy.  Con 
scious  of  his  abilities,  it  was  not  without  reason  that  he 
thought  well  of  himself,  in  view  of  the  order,  received 
that  morning,  which  was  to  make  this  a  farewell  call. 

He  had  found  Mrs.  Galland  an  agreeable  reflection 
of  an  aristocratic  past.  The  daughter  had  what  he  de 
fined  vaguely  as  girlish  piquancy.  He  found  it  amusing 
to  try  to  answer  her  unusual  questions;  he  liked  the 
variety  of  her  inventive  mind,  with  its  flashes  of  down 
right  matter-of-factness. 

Ascending  the  steps  with  his  firm,  regular  tread,  he 
suggested  poise  and  confidence  and,  perhaps,  vanity 
also  in  his  fastidious  dress.  As  Marta's  slight,  im 
mature  figure  came  to  the  edge  of  the  veranda,  he 
wondered  what  she  would  be  like  five  years  later,  when 
she  would  be  twenty-two  and  a  woman.  It  was  un 
likely  that  he  would  ever  know,  or  that  in  a  month  he 
would  care  to  know.  He  would  pass  on;  his  rank  would 
keep  him  from  returning  to  South  La  Tir,  which  was  a 
colonel's  billet  except  in  time  of  war. 


A  SPECK  IN  THE  SKY  7 

Not  until  tea  was  served  did  he  mention  his  new  as 
signment;  he  was  going  to  the  general  staff  at  the 
capital.  Mrs.  Galland  murmured  her  congratulations  in 
conventional  fashion. 

"Into  the  very  holy  of  holies  of  the  great  war  ma 
chine,  isn't  it?"  Marta  asked. 

"Yes — yes,  exactly!"  he  replied. 

Her  chair  was  drawn  back  from  the  table.  She  leaned 
forward  in  a  favorite  position  of  hers  when  she  was  in 
tensely  interested,  with  hands  clasped  over  her  knee, 
which  her  mother  always  found  aggravatingly  tomboy- 
ish.  She  had  a  mass  of  lustrous  black  hair  and  a  mouth 
rather  large  in  repose,  but  capable  of  changing  curves 
of  emotion.  Her  large,  dark  eyes,  luminously  deep 
under  long  lashes,  if  not  the  rest  of  her  face,  had  beauty. 
Her  head  was  bent,  the  lashes  forming  a  line  with  her 
brow  now,  and  her  eyes  had  the  still  flame  of  wonder 
that  they  had  when  she  was  looking  all  around  a  thing 
and  through  it  to  find  what  it  meant.  Westerling  knew 
by  the  signs  that  she  was  going  to  break  out  with  one  of 
her  visions,  rather  than  one  of  her  whimsical  ideas.  She 
was  seeing  the  Roman  general,  the  baron,  the  first  Gal- 
land,  and  the  fat,  pompous  little  man,  no  less  in  the  life 
than  Hedworth  Westerling.  She  had  fused  them  into 
one. 

"  Some  day  you  will  be  chief  of  staff,  the  head  of  the 
Gray  army!"  she  suddenly  exclaimed. 

Westerling  started  as  if  he  had  been  surprised  in  a 
secret.  Then  he  flushed  slightly. 

"Why?"  he  asked  with  forced  carelessness.  "Your 
reasons?  They're  more  interesting  than  your  prophecy." 

"Because  you  have  the  will  to  be,"  she  said  without 
emphasis,  in  the  impersonal  revelations  of  thought. 
"You  want  power.  You  have  ambition." 

He  looked  the  picture  of  it,  with  his  square  jaw,  his 
well-moulded  head  set  close  to  the  shoulders  on  a 
sturdy  neck,  his  even  teeth  showing  as  his  lips  parted  in 
an  unconscious  smile. 


8  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"Marta,  Marta!  She  is — is  so  explosive,"  Mrs.  Gal- 
land  remarked  apologetically  to  the  colonel. 

"I  asked  for  her  reasons.  I  brought  it  on  myself— 
and  it  is  not  a  bad  compliment,"  he  replied.  Indeed, 
he  had  never  received  one  so  thrilling. 

His  smile,  a  smile  well  pleased  with  itself,  remained  as 
Mrs.  Galland  began  to  talk  of  other  things,  and  its 
lingering  satisfaction  disappeared  only  with  Marta's  cry 
at  sight  of  the  speck  in  the  sky  over  the  Brown  range. 
She  was  out  on  the  lawn  before  the  others  had  risen 
from  their  seats. 

"An  aeroplane!    Hurry!"  she  called. 

This  was  a  summons  that  aroused  even  Mrs.  Galland 's 
serenity  to  haste.  For  the  first  time  they  were  seeing 
the  new  wonder  in  all  the  fascination  of  novelty  to  us 
moderns,  who  soon  make  our  new  wonders  common 
place  and  clamor  impatiently  for  others. 

"He  flies!  A  man  flies!"  Marta  exclaimed.  "Look 
at  that — coming  straight  for  your  tower,  baron!  You'd 
better  pull  up  the  drawbridge  and  go  on  your  knees  in 
the  chapel,  for  devils  are  abroad!" 

How  fast  the  speck  grew!  How  it  spread  to  the  en 
tranced  vision!  It  became  a  thing  of  still,  soaring  wings 
with  a  human  atom  in  its  centre,  Captain  Arthur  Lan- 
stron,  already  called  a  fool  for  his  rashness  by  a  group 
of  Brown  officers  on  the  aviation  grounds  beyond  the 
Brown  range. 

Naturally,  the  business  of  war,  watching  for  every  in 
vention  that  might  serve  its  ends,  was  the  first  patron  of 
flight.  Lanstron,  pupil  of  a  pioneer  aviator,  had  been 
warned  by  him  and  by  the  chief  of  staff  of  the  Browns, 
who  was  looking  on,  to  keep  in  a  circle  close  to  the  ground. 
But  he  was  doing  so  well  that  he  thought  he  would  try 
rising  a  little  higher.  When  the  levers  responded  with 
the  ease  of  a  bird's  wings,  temptation  became  inspira 
tion  and  inspiration  urged  on  temptation.  He  had  gone 
mad  with  the  ecstasy  of  his  sensation,  there  between 
heaven  and  earth.  Five  seconds  of  this  was  worth  five 
thousand  years  of  any  other  form  of  life. 


A  SPECK  IN  THE  SKY  9 

The  summits  of  the  range  shot  under  him,  unfolding 
a  variegated  rug  of  landscape.  He  dipped  the  planes 
slightly,  intending  to  follow  the  range's  descent  and 
again  they  answered  to  his  desire.  He  saw  himself  the 
eyes  of  an  army,  the  scout  of  the  empyrean.  If  a  body 
of  troops  were  to  march  along  the  pass  road  they  would 
be  as  visible  as  a  cloud  in  the  sky.  Yes,  here  was 
revolution  in  detecting  the  enemy's  plans!  He  had 
become  momentarily  unconscious  of  the  swiftness  of 
his  progress,  thanks  to  its  hypnotic  facility.  He  was  in 
the  danger  which  too  active  a  brain  may  bring  to  a  crit 
ical  and  delicate  mechanical  task.  The  tower  loomed 
before  him  as  suddenly  as  if  it  had  been  shot  up  out  of 
the  earth.  He  must  turn,  and  quickly,  to  avoid  dis 
aster;  he  must  turn,  or  he  would  be  across  the  white 
posts  in  the  enemy's  country. 

"Oh,  glorious  magic!"  cried  Marta. 

"A  dozen  good  shots  could  readily  bring  it  down," 
remarked  Westerling  critically.  "It  makes  a  steady 
target  at  that  angle  of  approach.  He's  going  to  turn 
— but  take  care,  there!" 

"Oh!"  groaned  Marta  and  Mrs.  Galland  together. 

In  an  agony  of  suspense  they  saw  the  fragile  creation 
of  cloth  and  bamboo  and  metal,  which  had  seemed  as 
secure  as  an  albatross  riding  on  the  lap  of  a  steady  wind, 
dip  far  over,  careen  back  in  the  other  direction,  and 
then  the  whirring  noise  that  had  grown  with  its  flight 
ceased.  It  was  no  longer  a  thing  of  winged  life,  defy 
ing  the  law  of  gravity,  but  a  thing  dead,  falling  under 
the  burden  of  a  living  weight. 

"The  engine  has  stopped!"  exclaimed  Westerling,  any 
trace  of  emotion  in  his  observant  imperturbability  that  of 
satisfaction  that  the  machine  was  the  enemy's.  He  was 
thinking  of  the  exhibition,  not  of  the  man  in  the  machine. 

Marta  was  thinking  of  the  man  who  was  about  to  die, 
a  silhouette  against  the  soft  blue  holding  its  own  balance 
resolutely  in  the  face  of  peril.  She  could  not  watch  any 
longer;  she  could  not  wait  on  the  catastrophe.  She  was 


io  THE  LAST  SHOT 

living  the  part  of  the  aviator  more  vividly  than  he,  with 
his  hand  and  mind  occupied.  She  rushed  down  the 
terrace  steps  wildly,  as  if  her  going  and  her  agonized 
prayer  could  avert  the  inevitable.  The  plane,  descend 
ing,  skimmed  the  garden  wall  and  passed  out  of  sight. 
She  heard  a  thud,  a  crackling  of  braces,  a  ripping  of  cloth, 
but  no  cry. 

Westerling  had  started  after  her,  exclaiming,  "This  is 
a  case  for  first  aid!"  while  Mrs.  Galland,  taking  the  steps 
as  fast  as  she  could,  brought  up  the  rear.  Through  the 
gateway  in  the  garden  wall  could  be  seen  the  shoulders 
of  a  young  officer,  a  streak  of  red  coursing  down  his 
cheek,  rising  from  the  wreck.  An  inarticulate  sob  of 
relief  broke  from  Marta's  throat,  followed  by  quick  gasps 
of  breath.  Captain  Arthur  Lanstron  was  looking  into 
the  startled  eyes  of  a  young  girl  that  seemed  to  reflect 
his  own  emotions  of  the  moment  after  having  shared 
those  he  had  in  the  air. 

"I  flew!  I  flew  clear  over  the  range,  at  any  rate!" 
he  said.  "And  I'm  alive.  I  managed  to  hold  her  so 
she  missed  the  wall  and  made  an  easy  bump." 

Marta  smiled  in  the  reaction  from  terror  at  his  idea 
of  an  easy  bump,  while  he  was  examining  the  damage 
to  his  person.  He  got  one  foot  free  of  the  wreck  and 
that  leg  was  all  right.  She  shared  his  elation.  Then 
he  found  that  the  other  was  uninjured,  just  as  she  cried 
in  distress: 

"But  your  hand — oh,  your  hand!" 

His  left  hand  hung  limp  from  the  wrist,  cut,  mashed, 
and  bleeding.  Its  nerves  numbed,  he  had  not  as  yet 
felt  any  pain  from  the  injury.  Now  he  regarded  it  in 
a  kind  of  awakening  stare  of  realization  of  a  deformity 
to  come. 

"Wool-gathering  again!"  he  muttered  to  himself 
crossly. 

Then,  seeing  that  she  had  turned  white,  he  thrust  the 
disgusting  thing  behind  his  back  and  twinged  with  the 
movement.  The  pain  was  arriving. 


A  SPECK  IN  THE  SKY  n 

"It  must  be  bandaged!  I  have  a  handkerchief!"  she 
begged.  "I'm  not  going  to  faint  or  anything  like 
that!" 

"Only  bruised — and  it's  the  left.  I  am  glad  it  was 
not  the  right,"  he  replied.  Westerling  arrived  and 
joined  Marta  in  offers  of  assistance  just  as  they  heard  the 
prolonged  honk  of  an  automobile  demanding  the  right 
of  way  at  top  speed  in  the  direction  of  the  pass. 

"Thank  you,  but  they're  coming  for  me,"  said  Lan- 
stron  to  Westerling  as  he  glanced  up  the  road. 

Westerling  was  looking  at  the  wreck.  Lanstron,  who 
recognized  him  as  an  officer,  though  in  mufti,  kicked  a 
bit  of  the  torn  cloth  over  some  apparatus  to  hide  it. 
At  this  Westerling  smiled  faintly.  Then  Lanstron 
saluted  as  officer  to  officer  might  salute  across  the  white 
posts,  giving  his  name  and  receiving  in  return  Wester- 
ling's. 

They  made  a  contrast,  these  two  men,  the  colonel  of 
the  Grays,  swart  and  sturdy,  his  physical  vitality  so 
evident,  and  the  captain  of  the  Browns,  some  seven  or 
eight  years  the  junior,  bareheaded,  in  dishevelled  fatigue 
uniform,  his  lips  twitching,  his  slender  body  quivering 
with  the  pain  that  he  could  not  control,  while  his  rather 
bold  forehead  and  delicate,  sensitive  features  suggested 
a  man  of  nerve  and  nerves  who  might  have  left  experi 
ments  in  a  laboratory  for  an  adventure  in  the  air.  There 
was  a  kind  of  challenge  in  their  glances;  the  challenge 
of  an  ancient  feud  of  their  peoples;  of  the  professional 
rivalry  of  polite  duellists.  Lanstron's  slight  figure 
seemed  to  express  the  weaker  number  of  the  three 
million  soldiers  of  the  Browns;  Westerling's  bulkier 
one,  the  four  million  five  hundred  thousand  of  the 
Grays. 

"You  had  a  narrow  squeak  and  you  made  a  very 
snappy  recovery  at  the  last  second,"  said  Westerling, 
passing  a  compliment  across  the  white  posts.  Marta 
could  literally  see  a  white  post  there  between  the  two. 

"That's  in  the  line  of  duty  for  you  and  me,  isn't  it?" 


12  THE  LAST  SHOT 

Lanstron  replied,  his  voice  thick  with  pain  as  he  forced  a 
smile. 

There  was  no  pose  in  his  fortitude.  He  was  evidently 
disgusted  with  himself  over  the  whole  business,  and  he 
turned  to  the  group  of  three  officers  and  a  civilian  who 
alighted  from  a  big  Brown  army  automobile  as  if  he 
were  prepared  to  have  them  say  their  worst.  They 
seemed  between  the  impulse  of  reprimanding  and  em 
bracing  him. 

"I  hope  that  you  are  not  surprised  at  the  result/'  said 
the  oldest  of  the  officers,  a  man  of  late  middle  age, 
rather  affectionately  and  teasingly.  He  wore  a  single 
order  on  his  breast,  a  plain  iron  cross,  and  the  insignia  of 
his  rank  was  that  of  a  field-marshal. 

"Not  now.  I  should  be  again,  sir,"  said  Lanstron, 
looking  full  at  the  field-marshal  in  the  appeal  of  one 
asking  for  another  chance.  "  I  was  wool-gathering.  My 
mind  was  off  duty  for  a  second  and  I  got  a  lesson  in 
self-control  at  the  expense  of  the  machine.  I  treated 
it  worse  than  it  deserved,  and  it  treated  me  better  than 
I  deserved.  But  I  shall  not  wool-gather  next  time. 
I've  got  a  reminder  more  urgent  than  a  string  tied  around 
my  finger." 

"  Yes,  that  hand  needs  immediate  attention,"  said  the 
doctor.  He  and  another  officer  began  helping  Lanstron 
into  the  automobile. 

"The  first  flight  ever  made  over  a  range — even  a  low 
one!  Thirty  miles  straightaway!"  remarked  the  ci 
vilian,  making  a  cursory  examination  of  the  wreck  of  the 
machine  which  was  a  pattern  known  by  his  name. 

"Very  educational  for  our  young  man,"  said  the 
field-marshal,  and  at  sight  of  Mrs.  Galland  paused  while 
they  exchanged  the  greetings  of  old  friends. 

"Your  Excellency,  may  we  send  back  for  you,  sir?" 
called  the  doctor.  He  was  not  one  to  let  rank  awe  him 
when  duty  pressed.  "This  hand  ought  to  be  at  the 
hospital  at  once." 

"I'm  coming  along.     I've  a  train  to  catch,"  replied 


A  SPECK  IN  THE  SKY  13 

His  Excellency,  springing  into  the  car.  "No  more  wool 
gathering,  eh?"  he  said,  giving  Lanstron  a  pat  on  the 
shoulder.  To  Lanstron  this  pat  meant  another  chance. 

"Good-by!"  he  called  to  the  young  girl,  who  was  still 
watching  him  with  big,  sympathetic  eyes.  "I  am  com 
ing  back  soon  and  land  in  the  field,  there,  and  when  I 
do.  I'll  claim  a  bunch  of  flowers." 

"Do!    What  fun!"  she  cried,  as  the  car  started. 

"The  field-marshal  was  Partow,  their  chief  of  staff?" 
Westerling  asked. 

"'Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Galland.  "I  remember  when  he 
was  a  young  infantry  officer  before  the  last  war,  before  he 
had  won  the  iron  cross  and  become  so  great.  He  was 
not  of  an  army  family — a  doctor's  son,  but  very  clever 
and  skilful." 

"Getting  a  little  old  for  his  work!"  remarked  Wester- 
ling.  "But  apparently  he  is  keen  enough  to  take  a  per 
sonal  interest  in  anything  new." 

"Wasn't  it  thrilling  and— and  terrible!"  Marta  ex 
claimed. 

"Yes,  like  war  at  our  own  door  again,"  replied  Mrs. 
Galland,  who  knew  war.  She  had  seen  war  raging  on 
the  pass  road.  "Lanstron,  the  young  man  said  his  name 
was,"  she  resumed  after  a  pause.  "No  doubt  the  Lan- 
strons  of  Thorbourg.  An  old  family  and  many  of  them 
in  the  army." 

"The  way  he  refused  to  give  in — that  was  fine!"  said 
Marta. 

Westerling,  who  had  been  engrossed  in  his  own 
thoughts,  looked  up. 

"Courage  is  the  cheapest  thing  an  army  has!  You 
can  get  hundreds  of  young  officers  who  are  glad  to  take 
a  risk  of  that  kind.  The  thing  is,"  and  his  fingers 
pressed  in  on  the  palm  of  his  hand  in  a  pounding  gesture 
of  the  forearm,  "to  direct  and  command — head  work — 
organization!" 

"If  war  should  come  again —  '  Marta  began.  Mrs. 
Galland  nudged  her.  A  Brown  never  mentioned  war 


i4  THE  LAST  SHOT 

to  an  officer  of  the  Grays;  it  was  not  at  all  in  the  ac 
cepted  proprieties.  But  Marta  rushed  on:  "So  many 
would  be  engaged  that  it  would  be  more  horrible  than 
ever." 

"You  cannot  make  omelets  without  breaking  eggs," 
Westerling  answered  with  suave  finality. 

"I  wonder  if  the  baron  ever  said  that!"  Marta  recol 
lected  that  it  was  a  favorite  expression  of  the  fat,  pom 
pous  little  man.  "It  sounds  like  the  baron,  at  all 
events." 

Westerling  did  not  mind  being  likened  to  the  baron. 
It  was  a  corroboration  of  her  prophecy.  The  baron 
must  have  been  a  great  leader  of  men  in  his  time. 

"The  aeroplane  will  take  its  place  as  an  auxiliary,"  he 
went  on,  his  mind  still  running  on  the  theme  of  her 
prophecy,  which  the  meeting  with  Lanstron  had  quick 
ened.  "But  war  will,  as  ever,  be  won  by  the  bayonet 
that  takes  and  holds  a  position.  We  shall  have  no  mir 
acle  victories,  no 

There  he  broke  off.  He  did  not  accompany  Mrs. 
Galland  and  Marta  back  to  the  house,  but  made  his 
adieus  at  the  garden-gate. 

"I'm  sure  that  I  shall  never  marry  a  soldier!"  Marta 
burst  out  as  she  and  her  mother  were  ascending  the  steps. 

"No?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Galland  with  the  rising  inflec 
tion  of  a  placid  scepticism  that  would  not  be  drawn  into 
an  argument.  Another  of  Marta's  explosions!  It  was 
not  yet  time  to  think  of  marriage  for  her.  If  it  had 
been  Mrs.  Galland  would  not  have  been  so  hospitable 
to  Colonel  Westerling.  She  would  hardly  have  been, 
even  if  the  colonel  had  been  younger,  say,  of  Captain 
Lanstron's  age.  Though  an  officer  was  an  officer, 
whether  of  the  Browns  or  the  Grays,  and,  perforce,  a 
gentleman  to  be  received  with  the  politeness  of  a  com 
mon  caste,  every  beat  of  her  heart  was  loyal  to  her  race. 
Her  daughter's  hand  was  not  for  any  Gray.  Young  Lan 
stron  certainly  must  be  of  the  Thorbourg  Lanstrons,  she 
mused.  A  most  excellent  family!  Of  course,  Marta 


A  SPECK  IN  THE  SKY  15 

would  marry  an  officer.  It  was  the  natural  destiny  of  a 
Galland  woman.  Yet  she  was  sometimes  worried  about 
Marta's  whimsies.  She,  too,  could  wonder  what  Marta 
would  be  like  in  five  years. 


n 

TEN  YEARS  LATER 

DOES  any  man  of  power  know  whither  the  tendencies 
of  his  time  are  leading  him,  or  the  people  whom  he  leads 
whither  they  are  being  led?  Had  any  one  of  these  four 
heroes  of  the  Grays  in  their  heavy  gilt  frames  divined 
what  kind  of  a  to-morrow  his  day  was  preparing?  All 
knew  the  pass  of  La  Tir  well,  and  if  all  had  not  won  de 
cisive  battles  they  would  have  been  hung  in  the  outer 
office  or  even  in  the  corridors,  where  a  line  of  half-for 
gotten  or  forgotten  generals  crooked  down  the  stair 
ways  into  the  oblivion  of  the  basement.  That  unfor 
tunate  one  whom  the  first  Galland  had  driven  through 
the  pass  was  quite  obscured  in  darkness.  He  would 
soon  be  crowded  out  to  an  antique  shop  for  sale  as  an 
example  of  the  portrait  art  of  his  period. 

The  privileged  quartet  on  that  Valhalla  of  victories, 
the  walls  of  the  chief  of  staff's  room,  personified  the  mili 
tary  inheritance  of  a  great  nation;  their  names  shone  in 
luminous  letters  out  of  the  thickening  shadows  of  the 
past,  where  those  of  lesser  men  grew  dimmer  as  their 
generations  receded  into  history.  He  in  the  steel  corse 
let,  with  high  cheek-bones,  ferret,  cold  eyes,  and  high, 
thin  nose,  its  nostrils  drawn  back  in  an  aristocratic  sniff 
—camps  were  evil-smelling  in  those  days — his  casquette 
resting  on  his  arm,  was  the  progenitor  of  him  with  the 
Louis  XIV.  curls;  he  of  the  early  nineteenth  century, 
with  a  face  like  Marshal  Ney's,  was  the  progenitor  of 
him  with  the  mustache  and  imperial  of  the  sixties. 

It  was  whispered  that  the  aristocratic  sniff  had  taken 
to  fierce,  no-quarter  campaigns  in  the  bitterness  of  a 

16 


TEN  YEARS  LATER-  17 

broken  heart.  Did  the  Grays,  then,  really  owe  two  of 
their  fairest  provinces  to  the  lady  who  had  jilted  him? 
Had  they  to  thank  the  clever  wife  of  him  of  the  Louis 
XIV.  curls,  whose  intrigues  won  for  her  husband  com 
mand  of  the  army,  for  another  province?  It  was  whis 
pered,  too,  that  the  military  glory  of  him  of  the  Marshal 
Ney  physiognomy  was  due  to  the  good  fortune  of  a 
senile  field-marshal  for  an  opponent.  But  no  matter. 
These  gentlemen  had  seen  the  enemy  fly.  They  had 
won.  Therefore,  they  were  the  supermen  of  sagas  who 
incarnate  a  people's  valor. 

The  Browns  gratified  their  own  sense  of  superiority, 
in  turn,  by  admiration  of  the  supermen  who  had  van 
quished  the  Gray  generals  consigned  to  the  oblivion  of 
the  basement.  In  their  staff  building,  the  first  Galland 
occupied  a  prominent  position  in  the  main  hall;  while  in 
the  days  of  Marta's  old  baron  heroes  did  not  have  their 
portraits  painted  for  want  of  painters,  and  the  present 
nations  had  consisted  only  of  warring  baronies  and  prin 
cipalities. 

They  must  have  been  rather  lonely,  these  immortals 
in  the  Gray  Valhalla,  as  His  Excellency  the  chief  of 
staff  was  seldom  in  his  office.  His  Excellency  had  years, 
rank,  prestige.  The  breast  of  his  uniform  sagged  with 
the  weight  of  his  decorations.  He  appeared  for  the 
army  at  great  functions;  his  picture  was  in  the  shop- 
windows.  Hedworth  Westerling,  the  new  vice-chief  of 
staff,  was  content  with  this  arrangement.  His  years 
would  not  permit  him  the  supreme  honor.  This  was 
for  a  figurehead,  while  he  had  the  power. 

His  appointment  to  the  staff  ten  years  ago  had  given 
him  the  field  he  wanted,  the  capital  itself,  for  the  play  of 
his  abilities.  His  vital  energy,  his  impressive  person 
ality,  his  gift  for  courting  the  influences  that  counted, 
whether  man's  or  woman's,  his  astute  readiness  in  stoop 
ing  to  some  measures  that  were  in  keeping  with  the  times 
but  not  with  army  precedent,  had  won  for  him  the  goal 
of  his  ambition.  He  had  passed  over  the  heads  of  older 


i8  THE  LAST  SHOT 

men,  whom  many  thought  his  betters,  rather  ruthlessly. 
Those  who  would  serve  loyally  he  drew  around  him; 
those  who  were  bitter  he  crowded  out  of  his  way. 

The  immortals  would  have  been  still  more  lonely,  or 
at  least  confused,  in  the  adjoining  room  occupied  by 
Westerling.  There  the  walls  were  hung  with  the  sil 
houettes  of  infantrymen,  such  as  you  see  at  manoeuvres, 
in  different  positions  of  firing,  crouching  in  shallow 
trenches,  standing  in  deep  trenches,  or  lying  flat  on  the 
stomach  on  level  earth.  Another  silhouette,  that  of  an 
infantryman  running,  was  peppered  with  white  points 
in  arms  and  legs  and  parts  of  the  body  that  were  not 
vital,  to  show  in  how  many  places  a  man  may  be  hit 
with  a  small-calibre  bullet  and  still  survive. 

The  immortals  had  small  armies.  Even  the  mus 
tache  and  imperial  had  only  three  hundred  thousand  in 
the  great  battle  of  the  last  war.  In  this  day  of  universal 
European  conscription,  if  Westerling  were  to  win  it 
would  be  with  five  millions — five  hundred  thousand 
more  than  when  he  faced  a  young  Brown  officer  over  the 
wreck  of  an  aeroplane — including  the  reserves;  each 
man  running,  firing,  crouching,  as  was  the  figure  on 
the  wall,  and  trying  to  give  more  of  the  white  points  that 
peppered  the  silhouette  than  he  received. 

Now  Turcas,  the  assistant  vice-chief  of  staff,  and 
Bouchard,  chief  of  the  division  of  intelligence,  standing 
on  either  side  of  Westerling's  desk,  awaited  his  decisions 
on  certain  matters  which  they  had  brought  to  his  at 
tention.  Both  were  older  than  Westerling,  Turcas  by 
ten  and  Bouchard  by  fifteen  years. 

Turcas  had  been  strongly  urged  in  inner  army  circles 
for  the  place  that  Westerling  had  won,  but  his  manner 
and  his  inability  to  court  influence  were  against  him. 
A  lath  of  a  man  and  stiff  as  a  lath,  pale,  with  thin, 
tightly-drawn  lips,  quiet,  steel-gray  eyes,  a  tracery  of 
blue  veins  showing  on  his  full  temples,  he  suggested 
the  ascetic  no  less  than  the  soldier,  while  his  incisive 
brevity  of  speech,  flavored  now  and  then  with  pungent 


TEN  YEARS  LATER  19 

humor,  without  any  inflection  in  his  dry  voice,  was  in 
keeping  with  his  appearance.  He  arrived  with  the 
clerks  in  the  morning  and  frequently  remained  after 
they  were  gone.  His  life  was  an  affair  of  calculated 
units  of  time;  his  habits  of  diet  and  exercise  all  regulated 
for  the  end  of  service.  His  subordinates,  whose  respect 
he  held  by  the  power  of  his  intellect,  said  that  his  brain 
never  tired  and  he  had  not  enough  body  to  tire.  He 
was  one  of  the  wheels  of  the  great  army  machine  and 
loved  the  work  for  its  own  sake  too  well  to  be  embittered 
at  being  overshadowed  by  a  younger  man.  As  a  master 
of  detail  Westerling  regarded  him  as  an  invaluable  as 
sistant,  with  certain  limitations,  which  were  those  of  the 
pigeonhole  and  the  treadmill. 

As  for  Bouchard,  nature  had  meant  him  to  be  a  wheel- 
horse.  He  had  never  had  any  hope  of  being  chief  of 
staff.  Hawk-eyed,  with  a  great  beak  nose  and  iron- 
gray  hair,  intensely  and  solemnly  serious,  lacking  a 
sense  of  humor,  he  would  have  looked  at  home  with  his 
big,  bony  hands  gripping  a  broadsword  hilt  and  his  lank 
body  clothed  in  chain  armor.  He  had  a  mastiff's  de 
votion  to  its  master  for  his  chief. 

"  Since  Lanstron  became  chief  of  intelligence  of  the 
Browns  information  seems  to  have  stopped,"  said  Wes 
terling,  but  not  complainingly.    He  appreciated  Bou 
chard's  loyalty. 

"Yes,  they  say  he  even  burns  his  laundry  bills,  he  is 
so  careful,"  Bouchard  replied. 

"But  that  we  ought  to  know,"  Westerling  proceeded, 
referring  very  insistently  to  a  secret  of  the  Browns  which 
had  baffled  Bouchard.  "Try  a  woman,"  he  went  on 
with  that  terse,  hard  directness  which  reflected  one  of 
his  sides.  "There  is  nobody  like  a  woman  for  that  sort 
of  thing.  Spend  enough  to  get  the  right  woman." 

Turcas  and  Bouchard  exchanged  a  glance,  which  rose 
suggestively  from  the  top  of  the  head  of  the  seated  vice- 
chief  of  staff.  Turcas  smiled  slightly,  while  Bouchard 
was  graven  as  usual. 


20  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"You  could  hardly  reach  Lanstron  though  you  spent 
a  queen's  ransom,"  said  Bouchard  in  his  literal  fash 
ion. 

"I  should  say  not!"  Westerling  exclaimed.  "No 
doubt  about  Lanstron's  being  all  there!  I  saw  him  ten 
years  ago  after  his  first  aeroplane  flight  under  conditions 
that  proved  it.  However,  he  must  have  susceptible 
subordinates." 

"We'll  set  all  the  machinery  we  have  to  work  to  find 
one,  sir,"  Bouchard  replied. 

"Another  thing,  we  may  dismiss  any  idea  that  they 
are  concealing  either  artillery  or  dirigibles  or  planes  that 
we  do  not  know  of,"  continued  Westerling.  "That  is  a 
figment  of  our  apprehensions.  The  fact  that  we  find  no 
truth  in  the  rumors  proves  that  there  is  none.  Such 
things  are  too  important  to  be  concealed  by  one  army 
from  another." 

"Lanstron  certainly  cannot  carry  them  in  his  pockets," 
remarked  Turcas.  "Still,  we  must  be  sure,"  he  added 
thoughtfully,  more  to  himself  than  to  Westerling,  who 
had  already  turned  his  attention  to  a  document  which 
Turcas  had  laid  on  the  desk. 

"A  recommendation  by  the  surgeon -in -chief,"  said 
Turcas,  "for  a  new  method  of  prompt  segregation  of 
ghastly  cases  among  the  wounded.  I  have  put  it  in 
the  form  of  an  order.  If  reserves  coming  into  action 
see  men  badly  lacerated  by  shell  fire  it  is  bound  to  make 
them  self-conscious  and  affect  morale." 

"Yes,"  Westerling  agreed.  "If  moving  pictures  of 
the  horrors  of  Port  Arthur  were  to  be  shown  in  our  bar 
racks  before  a  war,  it  would  hardly  encourage  martial 
enthusiasm.  I  shall  look  this  over  and  then  have  it  is 
sued.  It  will  not  be  necessary  to  wait  on  action  of  the 
staff  in  council." 

Turcas  and  Bouchard  exchanged  another  glance. 
They  had  fresh  evidence  of  Westerling's  tendency  to 
concentrate  authority  in  himself. 

"The  1 28th  Regiment  has  been  ordered  to  South  La 


TEN  YEARS  LATER  21 

Tir,  but  no  order  yet  given  for  the  13 2d,  whose  place  it 
takes,"  Turcas  went  on. 

"Let  it  remain  for  the  present!"  Westerling  replied. 

After  they  had  withdrawn,  the  look  that  passed  be 
tween  Turcas  and  Bouchard  was  a  pointed  question. 
The  13 2d  to  remain  at  South  La  Tir!  Was  there  some 
thing  more  than  "newspaper  talk"  in  this  latest  diplo 
matic  crisis  between  the  Grays  and  the  Browns?  Wes 
terling  alone  was  in  the  confidence  of  the  premier  of  late. 
Any  exchange  of  ideas  between  the  two  subordinates 
would  be  fruitless  surmise  and  against  the  very  instinct 
of  staff  secrecy,  where  every  man  knew  only  his  work 
and  asked  about  no  one  else's. 

Westerling  ran  through  the  papers  that  Turcas  had 
prepared  for  him.  If  Turcas  had  written  the  order  for 
the  wounded,  Westerling  knew  that  it  was  properly 
done.  Having  cleared  his  desk  into  the  hands  of  his 
executive  clerk,  he  looked  at  the  clock.  It  had  barely 
turned  four.  He  picked  up  the  final  staff  report  of  ob 
servations  on  the  late  Balkan  campaign,  just  printed  in 
book  form,  glanced  at  it  and  laid  it  aside.  Already  he 
knew  the  few  lessons  afforded  by  this  war  "done  on  the 
cheap,"  with  limited  equipment  and  over  bad  roads. 
No  dirigibles  had  been  used  and  few  planes.  It  was  no 
criterion,  except  in  the  effect  of  the  fire  of  the  new 
pattern  guns,  for  the  conflict  of  vast  masses  of  highly 
trained  men  against  vast  masses  of  highly  trained  men, 
with  rapid  transportation  over  good  roads,  complete 
equipment,  thorough  organization,  backed  by  generous 
resources,  in  the  cataclysm  of  two  great  European 
powers. 

Rather  idly,  now,  he  drew  a  pad  toward  him  and, 
taking  up  a  pencil,  made  the  figures  seventeen  and 
twenty-seven.  Then  he  made  the  figures  thirty- two  and 
forty-two.  He  blackened  them  with  repeated  tracings 
as  he  mused.  This  done,  he  put  seventeen  under  twenty- 
seven  and  thirty-two  under  forty-two.  He  made  the 
subtraction  and  studied  the  two  tens. 


22  THE  LAST  SHOT 

A  swing  door  opened  softly  and  his  executive  clerk 
reappeared  with  a  soft  tread,  unheard  by  Westerling 
engaged  in  mechanically  blackening  the  tens.  The 
clerk,  pausing  as  he  waited  for  a  signal  of  recognition, 
observed  the  process  wonderingly.  To  be  absently 
making  figures  on  a  pad  was  not  characteristic  of  the 
vice-chief  of  staff.  When  he  was  absorbed  his  habit  was 
to  tap  the  desk  edge  with  the  blunt  end  of  his  pencil. 

"Some  papers  for  your  signature,  sir,"  said  the  clerk 
as  he  slipped  them  on  the  blotter  in  front  of  Westerling. 
"And  the  i32d — no  order  about  that,  sir?"  he  asked. 

"None.     It  remains!"  Westerling  replied. 

The  clerk  went  out  impressed.  His  chief  taking  to 
sums  of  subtraction  and  totally  preoccupied!  The 
i32d  to  remain!  He,  too,  had  a  question-mark  in  his 
secret  mind. 

Westerling  proceeded  with  his  mathematics.  Having 
heavily  shaded  the  tens,  he  essayed  a  sum  in  division. 
He  found  that  ten  went  into  seventy  just  seven  times. 

"One-seventh  the  allotted  span  of  life!"  he  mused. 
"Take  off  fifteen  years  for  youth  and  fifteen  after  fifty- 
five — nobody  counts  after  that,  though  I  mean  to — and 
you  have  ten  into  forty,  which  is  one  fourth.  That  is  a 
good  deal.  But  it's  more  to  a  woman  than  to  a  man — 
yes,  a  lot  more  to  a  woman  than  to  a  man!" 

The  clerk  was  right  in  thinking  Westerling  preoccu 
pied;  but  it  was  not  with  the  international  crisis.  He 
had  dismissed  that  for  the  present  from  his  thoughts  by 
sending  the  i28th  Regiment  to  South  La  Tir.  He  might 
move  some  other  regiments  in  the  morning  if  advices 
from  the  premier  warranted.  At  all  events,  the  army 
was  ready,  always  ready  for  any  emergency.  He  was 
used  to  international  crises.  Probably  a  dozen  had  oc 
curred  in  the  ten  years  since  he  had  spoken  his  adieu 
to  a  young  girl  at  a  garden-gate.  Over  his  coffee  the 
name  of  Miss  Marta  Galland,  in  a  list  of  arrivals  at  a 
hotel,  had  caught  his  eye  in  the  morning  paper.  A  note 
to  her  had  brought  an  answer,  saying  that  her  time  was 


TEN  YEARS  LATER  23 

limited,  but  she  would  be  glad  to  have  him  call  at  five 
that  afternoon. 

Rather  impatiently  he  watched  the  slow  minute-hand 
on  the  clock.  He  had  risen  from  his  desk  at  four-thirty, 
when  his  personal  aide,  a  handsome,  boyish,  rosy-cheeked 
young  officer,  who  seemed  to  be  moulded  into  his  uni 
form,  appeared. 

"Your  car  is  waiting,  sir,"  he  said.  His  military  cor 
rectness  could  not  hide  the  admiration  and  devotion  in 
his  eyes.  He  thought  himself  the  most  fortunate  lieu 
tenant  in  the  army.  To  him  Westerling  was,  indeed, 
great.  Westerling  realized  this. 

"This  is  a  personal  call,"  Westerling  explained;  "so 
you  are  at  liberty  to  make  one  yourself,  if  you  like,"  he 
added,  with  that  magnetic  smile  of  a  genial  power  which 
he  used  to  draw  men  to  him  and  hold  them. 


m 

OURS  AND  THEIRS 

ON  the  second  terrace,  Feller,  the  Gallands'  gardener, 
a  patch  of  blue  blouse  and  a  patch  of  broad-brimmed 
straw  hat  over  a  fringe  of  white  hair,  was  planting  bulbs. 
Mrs.  Galland  came  down  the  path  from  the  veranda 
loiteringly,  pausing  to  look  at  the  flowers  and  again  at 
the  sweep  of  hills  and  plain.  The  air  was  singularly 
still,  so  still  that  she  heard  the  cries  of  the  children  at 
play  in  the  yards  of  the  factory-workers'  houses  which 
had  been  steadily  creeping  up  the  hill  from  the  town. 
She  breathed  in  the  peace  and  beauty  of  the  surround 
ings  with  that  deliberate  appreciation  of  age  which  holds 
to  the  happiness  in  hand.  To-morrow  it  might  rain; 
to-day  it  is  pleasant.  She  was  getting  old.  Serenely  she 
made  the  most  of  to-day. 

The  gardener  did  not  look  up  when  she  reached  his 
side.  She  watched  his  fingers  firmly  pressing  the  moist 
earth  around  the  bulbs  that  he  had  sunk  in  their  new 
beds.  There  were  only  three  more  to  set  out,  and  her 
inclination,  in  keeping  with  her  leisureliness,  was  to  wait 
on  the  completion  of  his  task  before  speaking.  Again 
she  let  her  glance  wander  away  to  the  distances.  It  was 
arrested  and  held  this  time  by  two  groups  of  far-away 
points  in  the  sky  along  the  frontier,  in  the  same  bright 
light  of  that  other  afternoon  when  Captain  Arthur  Lan- 
stron  had  made  his  first  flight  over  the  range. 

"Look!"  she  cried.  "Look,  look!"  she  repeated,  a 
girlish  excitement  rippling  her  placidity. 

Aeroplanes  and  dirigibles  had  become  a  familiar  sight. 
They  were  always  going  and  coming  and  manoeuvring, 

24 


OURS  AND  THEIRS  25 

the  Browns  over  their  territory  and  the  Grays  over 
theirs.  But  here  was  something  new:  two  squadrons  of 
dirigibles  and  planes  in  company,  one  on  either  side  of 
the  white  posts.  For  the  fraction  of  a  second  the  diri 
gibles  seemed  prisms  and  the  planes  still-winged  dragon- 
flies  hung  on  a  blue  wall.  With  the  next  fraction  the 
prisms  were  seen  to  be  growing  and  the  stretch  of  the 
plane  wings  broadening. 

"They  are  racing — ours  against  theirs!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Galland.  "Look,  look!" 

Still  the  gardener  bent  to  his  work,  unconcerned. 

"I  forgot!  I  always  forget  that  you  are  deaf!"  she 
murmured. 

She  touched  his  shoulder.  The  effect  was  magical  on 
the  stoop-shouldered  figure,  which  rose  with  the  spring  of 
muscles  that  are  elastic  and  joints  that  are  limber.  His 
hat  was  removed  with  prompt  and  rather  graceful  def 
erence,  revealing  eyebrows  that  were  still  dark  in  con 
trast  to  the  white  hair.  For  only  an  instant  did  he 
remain  erect,  but  long  enough  to  suggest  how  supple 
and  well -formed  he  must  have  been  in  youth.  Then  he 
made  a  grimace  and  dropped  his  hand  demonstratively 
over  his  knee. 

"Pardon,  Mrs.  Galland,  I  have  old  bones.  They  al 
ways  remind  me  if  I  try  to  play  any  youthful  tricks  on 
them.  Pardon!  I  did  not  see  that  you  were  here.  I," 
he  said,  in  the  monotonous  voice  of  the  deaf,  which, 
however,  had  a  certain  attractive  wistfulness — "I — " 
and  from  the  same  throat  as  he  saw  the  object  of  her 
gaze  came  a  vibration  of  passionate  interest.  "Yes, 
neck  and  neck!  Coming  right  for  the  baron's  tower, 
neck  and  neck!"  he  cried,  in  the  zest  of  a  contest  under 
stood  and  enjoyed. 

His  hand  rose  in  a  vigorous,  pulsating  gesture;  his 
eyes  were  snapping;  his  lips  parted  in  an  ecstasy  that 
made  him  seem  twenty  years  younger;  his  shoulders 
broadened  and  his  chest  expanded  with  the  indrawing 
of  a  deep  breath.  This  let  go,  the  stoop  returned  in  a 


26  THE  LAST  SHOT 

sudden  reaction,  the  briefly  kindled  flame  died  out  of 
his  eyes,  his  lips  took  on  the  droop  of  age,  and  he 
thrust  his  hat  back  on  his  head,  pulling  the  brim  low 
over  his  brow. 

"  Wonderful,  but  terrible— terrible !"  said  Mrs.  Gal- 
land.  "  Another  horror  is  added  to  war,  as  if  there  were 
not  already  enough.  Oh,  I  know  what  war  is!  I've 
seen  this  garden  all  spattered  with  blood  and  dead  bod 
ies  in  a  row  here  at  our  feet,  and  heard  the  groans  and 
the  cheers — the  groans  of  the  wounded  here  in  the  gar 
den  and  the  cheers  of  the  men  who  had  taken  the 
castle  hill!" 

Feller,  with  the  lids  of  shaded  eyes  half  closed,  watched 
the  oncoming  squadrons  in  a  staring  mesmerism.  His 
only  movement  was  a  tattoo  of  the  fingers  on  his  trou 
sers'  legs. 

"War!"  he  exclaimed  with  motionless  lips.  "War!" 
he  repeated  softly,  coaxingly.  One  would  easily  have 
mistaken  the  thought  of  war  as  something  delightful  to 
him  if  he  had  not  appeared  so  gentle  and  detached.  It 
seemed  doubtful  if  he  realized  what  he  was  saying  or 
even  that  he  was  speaking  aloud. 

As  the  Gray  squadron  started  to  turn  in  order  to  keep 
on  their  side  of  the  white  posts  which  circled  around  the 
spur  of  La  Tir,  one  of  the  dirigibles  failed  to  respond  to 
its  rudder  and  lost  speed;  that  in  the  rear,  responding 
too  readily,  had  its  leader  on  the  thwart.  An  aeroplane, 
sheering  too  abruptly  to  make  room,  tipped  at  a  dan 
gerous  angle  and  a  tragedy  seemed  due  within  another 
wink  of  the  eye. 

"Huh-huh-huh!"  came  from  Feller  in  quick  breaths, 
like  the  panting  of  a  dog  on  a  hot  day. 

"Oh!"  gasped  Mrs.  Galland  in  one  long  breath  of 
suspense. 

The  envelope  of  the  second  dirigible  grazed  the  envel 
ope  of  its  leader;  the  groggy  plane  righted  itself  and  vol 
planed  underneath  a  dirigible;  and,  though  scattered, 
the  Gray  squadron  drew  away  safely  from  the  Brown, 


OURS  AND  THEIRS  27 

which,  slowing  down,  came  on  as  straight  as  an  arrow 
in  unchanged  formation  in  a  line  over  the  castle  tower. 
From  the  forward  Brown  aeroplane,  as  its  shadow  shot 
over  the  garden,  pursued  by  the  great,  oblong  shadows 
of  the  dirigibles,  a  white  ball  was  dropped.  It  made  a 
plummet  streak  until  about  fifty  feet  above  the  earth, 
when  it  exploded  into  a  fine  shower  of  powder,  leaving 
intact  a  pirouetting  bit  of  white. 

"I  think  that  was  Colonel  Lanstron  leading  when  he 
ought  to  leave  such  work  to  his  assistants,"  said  Mrs. 
Galland.  "You  remember  him — why,  it  was  the  colo 
nel  who  recommended  you !  There,  now,  I've  forgotten 
again  that  you  are  deaf!" 

The  slip  of  paper  glided  back  and  forth  on  slight  cur 
rents  of  air  and  finally  fell  among  the  rose-bushes  a  few 
yards  from  where  the  two  were  standing.  Feller  brought 
it  to  Mrs.  Galland. 

"Yes,  it  was  Colonel  Lanstron,"  she  said,  after  read 
ing  the  message.  "The  message  says:  ' Hello,  Marta!' 
Any  other  officer  would  have  said:  'How  do  you  do, 
Miss  Galland!'  He  could  not  have  known  that  she  was 
away.  I've  just  had  a  telegram  from  her  that  she  will 
be  home  in  the  morning,  and  that  takes  me  back  to  my 
idea  that  I  came  to  speak  about  to  you,"  she  babbled  on, 
while  Feller  regarded  her  with  a  gentle,  uncomprehend 
ing  smile.  "You  know  how  she  likes  chrysanthemums 
and  they  are  in  full  bloom.  We'll  cut  them  and  fill  all 
the  vases  in  the  living-room  and  her  room  and — oh,  how 
I  do  forget!  You're  not  hearing  a  word ! "  she  exclaimed 
as  she  noted  the  helpless  eagerness  of  his  eyes. 

"It  is  a  great  nuisance,  deafness  in  a  gardener.  But 
I  love  my  work.  I  try  to  do  it  well,"  he  said  in  his 
monotone. 

"You  do  wonderfully,  wonderfully!"  she  assented; 
"and  you  deserve  great  credit.  Many  deaf  people  are 
irritable — and  you  are  so  cheerful!" 

He  smiled  as  pleasantly  as  if  he  had  heard  the  com 
pliment  and  passed  her  a  small  pad  from  his  blouse 


28  THE  LAST  SHOT 

pocket.  With  the  pencil  attached  to  it  by  a  string  she 
wrote  her  instructions  slowly,  in  an  old-fashioned  hand, 
dotting  all  the  i's  and  crossing  all  the  t's. 

"  Pardon  me,  madam,  but  Miss  Galland  " — he  paused, 
dwelling  with  a  slight  inflection  on  his  mention  of  the 
daughter  as  the  talisman  that  warranted  his  presuming 
to  disagree  with  the  mother — "Miss  Galland,  when  she 
took  her  last  look  around  before  going,  said:  ' Please 
don't  cut  any  yet.  I  want  to  see  them  all  abloom  in 
their  beds  first/  ' 

"She  has  taken  such  an  interest  in  them,  and  my  idea 
was  to  please  her.  Of  course,  leave  them,"  said  Mrs. 
Galland.  She  made  repeated  vigorous  nods  of  assent  to 
save  herself  the  trouble  of  writing.  Starting  back  up 
the  steps,  she  murmured:  "I  suppose  cut  flowers  are 
out  of  fashion — I  know  I  am — and  deaf  gardeners  are 
in."  She  sighed.  "And  you  are  twenty-seven,  Marta, 
twenty-seven!"  She  drew  another,  a  very  long  sigh, 
and  then  her  serenity  returned. 

"Ours  did  not  pass  theirs,"  observed  the  gardener, 
with  a  musing  smile  when  he  was  alone;  "but  theirs 
nearly  had  a  jolly  spill  there  at  the  turn!" 

As  he  bent  once  more  to  his  work  a  bumblebee  ap 
proached  on  its  glad,  piratical  errand  from  flower  to 
flower  in  the  rapt  stillness,  and  Feller  looked  around 
with  a  slight  courtesy  of  his  hat  brim. 

"You  and  your  fussily  thunderous  wings!"  he  said, 
half  aloud.  "I  wonder  if  you  think  you're  an  aeroplane. 
Surely,  they'd  never  train  you  to  evolute  in  squadrons. 
You  are  an  anarchist,  you  are,  and  an  epicurean  into  the 
bargain!" 

He  went  with  his  barrow  for  more  bulbs.  Meanwhile, 
the  sun  sank  behind  the  range.  The  plain  lay  bathed 
in  soft,  golden  light;  the  ravines  were  tongues  of  black 
shadow.  As  the  evening  gun  boomed  out  from  a  for 
tress  on  the  Brown  side  of  the  frontier,  Feller  glanced 
around  to  see  if  any  one  were  watching.  Assured  that 
he  was  alone,  he  removed  his  hat,  and,  though  he  wiped 


OURS  AND  THEIRS  29 

the  brim  and  wiped  his  brow,  in  his  attitude  was  the 
suggestion  of  the  military  stance  of  attention  at  colors. 
A  minute  later,  when  the  evening  gun  of  the  Grays 
across  the  white  posts  reverberated  over  the  plain,  he 
jammed  his  hat  back  on  his  head  rather  abruptly  and 
started  to  the  tool  house  with  his  barrow. 

"War!  war!"  he  repeated  softly.    "Yes,  war!"  he 
added  in  eager  desire. 


IV 
THE  DIVIDENDS  OF  POWER 

WESTERLING  realized  that  the  question  of  marriage 
as  a  social  requirement  might  arise  when  he  should  be 
come  officially  chief  of  staff  with  the  retirement  of  His 
Excellency  the  field-marshal.  For  the  present  he  enjoyed 
his  position  as  a  bachelor  who  was  the  most  favored  man 
in  the  army  too  much  to  think  of  marriage.  This  did 
not  imply  an  absence  of  fondness  for  women;  rather  the 
contrary.  He  liked  sitting  next  to  a  beautiful  neck  and 
shoulders  and  having  a  pair  of  feminine  eyes  sparkle 
into  his  at  dinner;  though,  with  rare  exceptions,  not 
the  same  neck  and  shoulders  on  succeeding  nights.  His 
natural  sense  of  organization  divided  women  into  two 
classes:  those  of  family  and  wealth,  whom  he  met  at 
great  houses,  and  those  purring  kittens  who  live  in  small 
flats.  Both  afforded  him  diversion.  A  woman  had 
been  the  most  telling  influence  in  making  him  vice-chief 
of  staff;  an  affair  to  which  gossip  gave  the  breath  of 
scandal  had  been  an  argument  against  him. 

It  was  a  little  surprising  that  the  bell  that  the  girl  of 
seventeen  had  rung  in  his  secret  mind  when  he  was  on 
one  of  the  first  rounds  of  the  ladder,  now  lost  in  the  mists 
of  a  lower  stratum  of  existence,  should  ever  tinkle  again. 
Yet  he  had  heard  its  note  in  the  tone  of  her  prophecy 
with  each  step  in  his  promotion;  and  while  the  other 
people  whom  he  had  known  at  La  Tir  were  the  vaguest 
shadows  of  personalities,  her  picture  was  as  definite  in 
detail  as  when  she  said:  "You  have  the  will!  You  have 
the  ambition!"  She  had  recognized  in  him  the  power 
that  he  felt;  foreseen  his  ascent  to  the  very  apex  of  the 


THE  DIVIDENDS  OF  POWER  31 

pyramid.  She  was  still  unmarried,  which  was  strange; 
for  she  had  not  been  bad-looking  and  she  was  of  a  fine 
old  family.  What  was  she  like  now?  Commonplace 
and  provincial,  most  likely.  Many  of  the  people  he  had 
known  in  his  early  days  appeared  so  when  he  met  them 
again.  But,  at  the  worst,  he  looked  for  an  interesting 
half-hour. 

The  throbbing  activity  of  the  streets  of  the  capital,  as 
his  car  proceeded  on  the  way  to  her  hotel,  formed  an 
energetic  accompaniment  to  his  gratifying  backward  sur 
vey  of  how  all  his  plans  had  worked  out  from  the  very 
day  of  the  prophecy.  Had  he  heard  the  remark  of  a 
great  manufacturer  to  the  banker  at  his  side  in  a  passing 
limousine,  "  There  goes  the  greatest  captain  of  industry 
of  us  all!"  Westerling  would  only  have  thought:  "Cer 
tainly.  I  am  chief  of  staff.  I  am  at  the  head  of  all 
your  workmen  at  one  time  or  another!"  Had  he  heard 
the  banker's  answer,  "But  pretty  poor  pay,  pretty  small 
dividends!"  he  would  have  thought:  "Splendid  divi 
dends — the  dividends  of  power!" 

He  had  a  caste  contempt  for  the  men  of  commerce, 
with  their  mercenary  talk  about  credit  and  market 
prices;  and  also  for  the  scientists,  doctors,  engineers, 
and  men  of  other  professions,  who  spoke  of  things  in 
books  which  he  did  not  understand.  Reading  books 
was  one  of  the  faults  of  Turcas,  his  assistant.  No  book 
ish  soldier,  he  knew,  had  ever  been  a  great  general.  He 
resented  the  growing  power  of  these  leaders  of  the  civil 
world,  taking  distinction  away  from  the  military,  even 
when,  as  a  man  of  parts,  he  had  to  court  their  influence. 
His  was  the  profession  that  was  and  ever  should  be  the 
elect.  A  penniless  subaltern  was  a  gentleman,  while  he 
could  never  think  of  a  man  in  business  as  one. 

All  the  faces  in  the  street  belonged  to  a  strange,  busy 
world  outside  his  interest  and  thoughts.  They  formed 
what  was  known  as  the  public,  often  making  a  clatter 
about  things  which  they  did  not  understand,  when  they 
should  obey  the  orders  of  their  superiors.  Of  late,  their 


32  THE  LAST  SHOT 

clatter  had  been  about  the  extra  taxes  for  the  recent 
increase  of  the  standing  forces  by  another  corps.  The 
public  was  bovine  with  a  parrot's  head.  Yet  it  did  not 
admire  the  toiling  ox,  but  the  eagle  and  the  lion. 

As  his  car  came  to  the  park  his  eyes  lighted  at  sight 
of  one  of  the  dividends — one  feature  of  urban  life  that 
ever  gave  him  a  thrill.  A  battalion  of  the  i28th,  which 
he  had  ordered  that  afternoon  to  the  very  garrison  at 
South  La  Tir  that  he  had  once  commanded,  was  marching 
through  the  main  avenue.  Youths  all,  of  twenty-one  or 
two,  they  were  in  a  muddy-grayish  uniform  which  was 
the  color  of  the  plain  as  seen  from  the  veranda  of  the 
Galland  house. 

Around  them,  in  a  mighty,  pervasive  monotone,  was 
the  roar  of  city  traffic,  broken  by  the  nearer  sounds  of 
the  cries  of  children  playing  in  the  sand  piles,  the  bark 
of  motor  horns,  the  screech  of  small  boys'  velocipedes 
on  the  paths  of  the  park;  while  they  themselves  were 
silent,  except  for  the  rhythmic  tramp  of  the  military 
shoes  of  identical  pattern,  as  was  every  article  of  their 
clothing  and  equipment  from  head  to  foot,  whose  char 
acter  had  been  the  subject  of  the  weightiest  deliberation 
of  the  staff. 

How  much  can  a  soldier  carry  and  how  best  carry  it 
easily?  What  shoes  are  the  most  serviceable  for  march 
ing  and  yet  cheap?  Nothing  was  so  precise  in  all  their 
surroundings,  nothing  seemed  so  resolutely  dependable 
as  this  column  of  soldiers.  They  were  the  last  word  in 
filling  human  tissue  into  a  mould  for  a  set  task.  Where 
these  came  from  were  other  boys  growing  up  to  take 
their  places.  The  mothers  of  the  nation  were  doing 
their  duty.  All  the  land  was  a  breeding-ground  for  the 
dividends  of  Hedworth  Westerling. 

At  the  far  side  of  the  park  he  saw  another  kind  of 
dividend — another  group  of  marching  men.  These  were 
not  in  uniform.  They  were  the  unemployed.  Many 
were  middle-aged,  with  worn,  tired  faces.  Beside  the 
flag  of  the  country  at  the  head  of  the  procession  was  that 


THE  DIVIDENDS  OF  POWER  33 

of  universal  radicalism.  And  his  car  had  to  stop  to  let 
them  pass.  For  an  instant  the  indignation  of  military 
autocracy  rose  strong  within  him  at  sight  of  the  national 
colors  in  such  company.  But  he  noted  how  naturally 
the  men  kept  step;  the  solidarity  of  their  movement. 
The  stamp  of  their  army  service  in  youth  could  not  be 
easily  removed.  He  realized  the  advantage  of  heading 
an  army  in  which  defence  was  not  dependent  on  a  mix 
ture  of  regulars  and  volunteers,  but  on  universal  con 
scription  that  brought  every  able-bodied  man  under  dis 
cipline. 

These  reservists,  in  the  event  of  war,  would  hear  the 
call  of  race  and  they  would  fight  for  the  one  flag  that 
then  had  any  significance.  Yes,  the  old  human  im 
pulses  would  predominate  and  the  only  enemy  would  be 
on  the  other  side  of  the  frontier.  They  would  be  pawns 
of  his  will — the  will  that  Marta  Galland  had  said  would 
make  him  chief  of  staff. 

Wasn't  war  the  real  cure  for  the  general  unrest? 
Wasn't  the  nation  growing  stale  from  the  long  peace? 
He  was  ready  for  war  now  that  he  had  become  vice- 
chief,  when  the  retirement  of  His  Excellency,  unable 
to  bear  the  weight  of  his  years  and  decorations  in  the 
field,  would  make  him  the  supreme  commander.  One 
ambition  gained,  he  heard  the  appeal  of  another:  to 
live  to  see  the  guns  and  rifles  that  had  fired  only  blank 
cartridges  in  practice  pouring  out  shells  and  bullets,  and 
all  the  battalions  that  had  played  at  sham  war  in  ma 
noeuvres  engaged  in  real  war,  under  his  direction.  He 
saw  his  columns  sweeping  up  the  slopes  of  the  Brown 
range.  Victory  was  certain.  He  would  be  the  first  to 
lead  a  great  modern  army  against  a  great  modern  army; 
his  place  as  the  master  of  modern  tactics  secure  in  the 
minds  of  all  the  soldiers  of  the  world.  The  public  would 
forget  its  unrest  in  the  thrill  of  battles  won  and  prov 
inces  conquered,  and  its  clatter  would  be  that  of  acclaim 
for  a  new  idol  of  its  old  faith. 


OFF  TO  THE  FRONTIER 

RANKS  broken  in  the  barracks  yard,  backs  free  of 
packs,  shoulders  free  of  rifles,  the  men  of  the  first  bat 
talion  of  the  1 28th,  which  Westerling  had  seen  march 
ing  through  the  park,  had  no  thought  except  the  pros 
pect  of  the  joyous  lassitude  of  resting  muscles  and  of 
loosening  tongues  that  had  been  silent  on  the  march. 
They  were  simply  tired  human  beings  in  the  democracy 
of  a  common  life  and  service. 

The  1 28th  had  been  recruited  from  a  province  in  the 
high  country  distant  from  the  capital.  In  the  days  of 
Marta's  old  baron,  a  baron  of  the  same  type  had  plun 
dered  their  ancestors,  and  in  the  days  of  the  first  Gal- 
land  they  formed  a  principality  frequently  at  war  with 
their  neighbors  of  the  same  blood  and  language.  At 
length  they  had  united  with  their  neighbors  who  had  in 
turn  united  with  other  neighbors,  forming  the  present 
nation  of  the  Grays,  which  vented  its  fighting  spirit 
against  other  nations.  Each  generation  must  send  forth 
its  valorous  and  adventurous  youth  to  the  proof  of  its 
manhood  in  battle,  while  those  who  survived  wounds 
and  disease  became  the  heroes  of  their  reminiscences, 
inciting  the  younger  generation  to  emulation.  With 
each  step  in  the  evolution  learning  had  spread  and  civi 
lization  developed. 

Since  the  last  war  universal  conscription  had  gone 
hand  in  hand  with  popular  education  and  the  tele 
graphic  click  of  the  news  of  the  world  to  all  breakfast 
tables  and  cheap  travel  and  better  living.  Every  pri 
vate  of  the  five  millions  was  a  scholar  compared  to  the  old 
baron;  he  had  a  broader  horizon  than  the  first  Galland. 

34 


OFF  TO  THE  FRONTIER  35 

In  the  name  of  defence,  to  hold  their  borders  secure,  the 
great  powers  were  straining  their  resources  to  strengthen 
the  forces  that  kept  an  armed  peace.  Evolution  never 
ceases.  What  next? 

In  a  group  of  the  members  of  Company  B,  who  dropped 
on  a  bench  in  the  barrack  room,  were  the  sons  of  a 
farmer,  a  barber,  a  butcher,  an  army  officer,  a  day- 
laborer,  a  judge,  a  blacksmith,  a  rich  man's  valet,  a 
banker,  a  doctor,  a  manufacturer,  and  a  small  shop 
keeper. 

"Six  months  more  and  my  tour  is  up!"  cried  the 
judge's  son. 

"Six  months  more  for  me!" 

"Now  you're  counting!" 

"And  for  me — one,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six!" 

"Oh,  don't  rub  it  in,"  the  manufacturer's  son  shouted 
above  the  chorus,  "you  old  fellows!  I've  a  year  and  six 
months  more." 

"Here,  too!"  chimed  in  the  banker's  son.  "A  year 
and  six  months  more  of  iron  spoons  and  tin  cups  and 
army  shoes  and  army  fare  and  early  rising.  Hep-hep- 
hep,  drill-drill-drill,  and  drudgery!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  said  the  day-laborer's  son.  "I 
don't  have  to  get  up  any  earlier  than  I  do  at  home,  and 
I  don't  have  to  work  as  hard  as  I'll  have  to  when  I 
leave." 

"Nor  I!"  agreed  the  blacksmith's  son.  "It's  a  kind 
of  holiday  for  me." 

"Holiday!"  the  banker's  son  gasped.  "That's  so," 
he  added  thoughtfully,  and  smiled  gratefully  over  a  fate 
that  had  been  indulgent  to  him  in  a  matter  of  fathers 
and  limousines. 

"Look  at  the  newspapers!  Maybe  we  shall  be  going 
to  war,"  said  the  manufacturer's  son. 

"Stuff!  Nonsense!"  said  the  judge's  son.  "We  are 
always  having  scares.  They  sell  papers  and  give  the 
fellows  at  the  Foreign  Office  a  chance  to  look  unconcerned. 
But  let's  have  the  opinion  of  an  international  expert, 


36  THE  LAST  SHOT 

of  the  great  and  only  philosopher,  guide,  companion,  and 
friend.  What  do  you  think  of  the  crisis,  eh,  Hugo? 
Soberly,  now.  The  fate  of  nations  may  hang  on  your 
words.  If  not,  at  least  the  price  of  a  ginger  soda!" 

It  was  around  Hugo  Mallin  that  the  group  had 
formed.  Groups  were  always  forming  around  Hugo. 
He  could  spring  the  unexpected  and  incongruous  and 
make  people  laugh.  Slight  but  wiry  of  physique,  he 
had  light  hair,  a  freckled  and  rather  nondescript  nose, 
large  brown  eyes,  and  a  broad,  sensitive  mouth.  Na 
ture  had  not  attempted  any  regularity  of  features  in 
his  case.  She  had  been  content  with  making  each  one 
a  mobile  servant  of  his  mind.  In  repose  his  face  was 
homely,  and  it  was  a  mask. 

"Come  on,  Hugo!     Out  with  it!" 

Hugo's  brow  contracted;  the  lines  of  the  mask  were 
drawn  in  deliberate  seriousness. 

"I  never  hear  war  mentioned  that  I  don't  have  a 
shiver  right  down  my  spine,  as  I  did  when  I  was  a  little 
boy  and  went  into  the  cellar  without  a  light,"  he  replied. 

"Fear?"  exclaimed  Eugene  Aronson,  the  farmer's  son, 
whose  big,  plain  face  expressed  dumb  incomprehension. 
He  alone  was  standing.  Being  the  giant  and  the  ath 
lete  of  the  company,  the  march  had  not  tired  him. 

"Fear?"  some  of  the  others  repeated.  The  senti 
ment  was  astounding,  and  Hugo  was  as  manifestly  in 
earnest  as  if  he  were  a  minister  addressing  a  parliamen 
tary  chamber. 

"Yes,  don't  you?"  asked  Hugo,  in  bland  surprise. 

"I  should  say  not!"  declared  Eugene. 

"Do  you  want  to  be  killed?"  asked  Hugo,  with  pro 
found  interest. 

"The  bullet  isn't  made  that  will  get  me!"  answered 
Eugene,  throwing  back  his  broad  shoulders. 

"I  don't  know,"  mused  Hugo,  eying  the  giant  up 
and  down.  "You're  pretty  big,  Gene,  and  a  bullet  that 
only  nicked  one  of  us  in  the  bark  might  get  you  in  the 
wood.  However,  if  you  are  sure  that  you  are  in  no 


OFF  TO  THE  FRONTIER  37 

danger,  why,  you  don't  count.  But  let's  take  a  census 
while  we  are  about  it  and  see  who  wants  to  be  killed. 
First,  you,  Armand;  do  you?"  he  asked  the  doctor's  son, 
Armand  Daution. 

Armand  grinned.  The  others  grinned,  not  at  him, 
but  at  the  quizzical  solemnity  of  Hugo's  manner. 

"If  so,  state  whether  you  prefer  bullets  or  shrapnel, 
early  in  the  campaign  or  late,  a  la  carte  or  table  d'h6te, 
morning  or—"  Hugo  went  on. 

But  laughter  drowned  the  sentence,  though  Hugo's 
face  was  without  a  smile. 

"  You  ought  to  go  on  the  stage!"  some  one  exclaimed. 

"If  it  were  as  easy  to  amuse  a  pay  audience  as  you 
fellows,  I  might,"  Hugo  replied.  "But  I've  another 
question,"  he  pursued.  "Do  you  think  that  the  fellows 
on  the  other  side  of  the  frontier  want  to  be  killed?" 

"No  danger !  They'll  give  in.  They  always  do,"  said 
Eugene. 

"I  confess  that  it  hardly  seems  reasonable  to  make 
war  over  the  Bodlapoo  affair!"  This  from  the  judge's 
son. 

"Over  some  hot  weather,  some  swamp,  and  some 
black  policemen  in  Africa,"  said  Hugo. 

"But  they  hauled  down  our  flag!"  exclaimed  the 
army  officer's  son. 

"On  their  territory,  they  say.  We  were  the  aggres 
sors,"  Hugo  interposed. 

"It  was  our  flag!"  said  Eugene. 

"But  we  wouldn't  want  them  to  put  up  their  flag 
on  our  territory,  would  we?"  Hugo  asked. 

"Let  them  try  it!"  thundered  Eugene,  with  a  full 
breath  from  the  big  bellows  in  his  broad  chest.  "Hugo, 
I  don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  that  way,"  he  added,  shak 
ing  his  head  sadly.  Such  views  from  a  friend  really 
hurt  him;  indeed,  he  was  almost  lugubrious.  This 
brought  another  laugh. 

"Don't  you  see  he's  getting  you,  Gene?" 

"He's  acting!" 


38  THE  LAST  SHOT 

1 1  He  always  gets  you ,  you  old  simpleton ! ' '  The  judge's 
son  gave  Eugene  an  affectionate  dig  in  the  ribs. 

Eugene  was  well  liked  and  in  the  way  that  a  big 
Saint  Bernard  dog  is  liked.  At  the  latest  manoeuvres, 
on  the  night  that  their  division  had  made  a  rapid  flank 
movement,  without  any  apparent  sense  that  his  own 
load  was  the  heavier  for  it,  he  had  carried  the  rifle  and 
pack  of  Peter  Kinderling,  a  valet's  pasty-faced  little 
son.  "Peterkin,"  as  he  was  called,  was  the  stupid  of 
Company  B.  Being  generally  inoffensive,  the  butt  of 
the  drill  sergeant,  who  thought  that  he  would  never 
learn  even  the  manual  of  arms,  and  rounding  out  the 
variety  of  characters  which  makes  for  fellowship,  he 
was  regarded  with  a  sympathetic  kindliness  by  his  com 
rades. 

"But  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  joke  about  the  flag. 
That's  sacred!"  declared  Eugene. 

"Now  you're  talking!"  said  Jacob  Pilzer,  the  butcher's 
son,  who  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  bench  from  Eugene. 
He  was  heavily  built,  with  an  undershot  jaw  and  a  patch 
of  liverish  birthmark  on  his  cheek. 

"Yes,"  piped  Peterkin,  who  had  an  opinion  when  the 
two  strong  men  of  the  company  agreed  on  any  subject. 
But  he  spoke  tentatively,  nevertheless.  He  was  taking 
no  risks. 

"Oh,  if  we  went  to  war  the  Bodlapoo  affair  would  be 
only  an  excuse,"  said  the  manufacturer's  son.  "We 
shall  go  to  war  as  a  matter  of  broad  national  policy." 

"Right  you  are!"  agreed  the  banker's  son.  "No 
emotion  about  it.  Emotion  as  an  international  quan 
tity  is  dead.  Everything  is  business  now  in  this  busi 
ness  age." 

"Killing  people  as  a  broad  international  policy!" 
mused  Hugo  sotto  wee,  as  if  this  were  a  matter  of  his 
own  thoughts. 

The  others  scarcely  heard  him  as  the  manufacturer's 
son  struck  his  fist  in  the  palm  of  his  hand  resoundingly 
to  demand  attention. 


OFF  TO  THE  FRONTIER  39 

"We  need  room  in  which  to  expand.  We  have  eighty 
million  people  to  their  fifty,  while  our  territory  is  only 
a  little  larger  than  theirs.  Our  population  grows;  the 
Browns'  does  not!"  he  announced. 

"But  there  is  a  remedy  for  that,"  Hugo  interjected 
softly,  so  softly  that  everybody  looked  at  him.  "Why, 
all  the  conscripts  of  the  army  for  two  years  could  take 
a  vow  not  to  marry,"  he  said.  "We  could  reduce  the 
output,  as  your  father's  factory  does  when  the  market 
is  dull.  We  should  not  have  so  many  babies.  This 
would  be  cheaper  than  rearing  them  to  be  slaughtered 
in  their  young  manhood." 

"Hear  ye!  Hear  ye!"  shouted  the  doctor's  son,  in 
the  midst  of  the  hilarity  that  ensued.  "Hugo  Mallin 
solves  the  whole  problem  of  eugenics  by  destroying  the 
field  for  eugenics!" 

"The  levity  of  a  lot  of  mere  unthinking  privates  who 
mistake  themselves  for  sociological  experts  shall  not 
deter  me  from  finishing  my  speech,"  pursued  the  manu 
facturer's  son. 

"Speak  on!" 

"Listen  to  the  fount  of  wisdom  play!" 

"A  beer  if  you  produce  an  idea!" 

"War  must  come  some  day.  It  must  come  if  for  no 
other  reason  than  to  stop  the  strikes,  arouse  patriotism, 
and  give  an  impetus  to  industry.  An  army  of  five  mil 
lions  on  our  side  against  the  Browns'  three  millions !  Of 
course,  they  won't  start  it!  We  shall  have  to  take  the 
aggressive;  naturally,  they'll  not." 

"And  they'll  run,  they'll  run,  just  as  they  always 
have!"  Eugene  cried  enthusiastically. 

"You  bet  they  will,  or  they'll  be  mush  for  our  bay 
onets!"  said  Pilzer,  the  butcher's  son. 

"Will  they?  Do  you  really  think  they  will?"  asked 
Hugo,  drawing  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth  in  pro 
found  contemplation  that  was  actually  mournful.  "I 
wonder,  now,  I  wonder  if  they  can  run  any  faster  than 
I  can?" 


40  THE  LAST  SHOT 

Everybody  was  laughing  except  him.  If  he  had 
laughed  too,  he  would  not  have  been  funny.  His  faint 
look  of  surprise  over  their  outburst  only  served  to  pro 
long  it. 

"Hugo,  you're  immense!" 

" You're  a  scream!" 

"But  I  am  considering,"  Hugo  resumed,  when  there 
was  silence.  "If  both  sides  ran  as  fast  as  they  could 
when  the  war  began,  it  would  be  interesting  to  see  which 
army  reached  home  first.  Some  of  us  might  get  out  of 
breath,  but  nobody  would  be  killed."  He  had  to  wait 
on  another  laugh  before  he  could  continue.  It  takes 
little  to  amuse  men  in  garrison  if  one  knows  how.  "I 
don't  want  to  be  killed,  and  why  should  I  want  to  kill 
strangers  on  the  other  side  of  the  frontier?"  He  paused 
on  the  rising  inflection  of  his  question,  a  calm,  earnest 
challenge  in  his  eyes.  "I  don't  know  them.  I  haven't 
the  slightest  grudge  against  them." 

No  grudge  against  the  Browns — against  the  ancient 
enemy!  The  faces  around  were  frowning,  as  if  in  doubt 
how  to  take  him. 

"What  did  you  come  into  the  army  for,  then?"  called 
Pilzer,  the  butcher's  son.  "You  didn't  have  to,  being 
an  only  son.  Talk  that  stuff  to  your  officers!  They 
will  let  you  out.  They  don't  want  any  cowards  like 
you!" 

"Cowards!  Hold  on,  there!"  said  Eugene,  who  was 
very  fond  of  Hugo.  He  spoke  in  the  even  voice  of  his 
vast  good  nature,  but  he  looked  meaningly  at  the 
butcher's  son. 

"Coward?  Is  that  the  word,  Jake?"  Hugo  inquired 
amiably.  "Now,  maybe  I  am.  I  don't  know.  But  it 
wouldn't  prove  that  I  wasn't  if  I  fought  you  any  more 
than  if  I  fought  the  strangers  on  the  other  side  of  the 
frontier." 

"Well,  if  you  don't  want  to  fight,  what  are  you  in 
the  army  for?  That's  a  fair  question,  isn't  it?"  growled 
Pilzer,  in  an  appeal  to  public  opinion. 


OFF  TO  THE  FRONTIER  41 

"Yes,  you  can  carry  a  joke  too  far,"  said  the  army 
officer's  son.  "Yes,  why?" 

The  others  nodded.  An  atmosphere  "of  hostility  was 
gathering  around  Hugo.  In  face  of  it  a  smile  began 
playing  about  the  corners  of  his  lips.  The  smile  spread. 
For  the  first  time  he  was  laughing,  while  all  the  others 
were  serious.  Suddenly  he  threw  his  arms  around  the 
necks  of  the  men  next  to  him. 

"Why,  to  be  with  all  you  good  fellows,  of  course!" 
he  said,  "and  to  complete  my  education.  If  I  hadn't 
taken  my  period  in  the  army,  you  might  have  shaved 
me,  Eduardo;  you  might  have  fixed  a  horseshoe  for  me, 
Henry;  you  might  have  sold  me  turnips,  Eugene,  but 
I  shouldn't  have  known  you.  Now  we  all  know  one 
another  by  eating  the  same  food,  wearing  the  same 
clothes,  marching  side  by  side,  and  submitting  to  an 
other  kind  of  discipline  than  that  of  our  officers — the 
discipline  of  close  association  in  a  community  of  service. 
There's  hope  for  humanity  in  that — for  humanity  try 
ing  to  free  itself  of  its  fetters.  We  have  mixed  with  the 
people  of  the  capital.  They  have  found  us  and  we  have 
found  them  to  be  of  the  same  human  family." 

"That's  so!  This  business  of  moving  regiments  about 
from  one  garrison  to  another  is  a  good  cure  for  provin 
cialism,"  said  the  doctor's  son. 

"Judge's  son  or  banker's  son  or  blacksmith's  son, 
whenever  we  meet  in  after-life  there  will  be  a  thought 
of  fellowship  exchanged  in  our  glances,"  Hugo  continued. 
"Haven't  we  got  something  that  we  couldn't  get  other 
wise?  Doesn't  it  thrill  you  now  when  we're  all  tired 
from  the  march  except  leviathan  Gene — thrill  you  with 
a  warm  glow  from  the  flow  of  good,  rich,  healthy  red 
blood?" 

"Yes,  yes,  yes!" 

There  was  a  chorus  of  assent.  Banker's  son  clapped 
valet's  son  on  the  shoulder;  laborer's  son  and  doctor's 
son  locked  arms  and  teetered  on  the  edge  of  the  cot  to 
gether. 


42  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"And  I've  another  idea,"  proceeded  Hugo  very  seri 
ously  as  the  vows  of  eternal  friendship  subsided.  "It 
is  one  to  spread  education  and  the  spirit  of  comradeship 
still  further.  Instead  of  two  sets  of  autumn  manoeuvres, 
one  on  either  side  of  the  frontier,  I'd  have  our  army  and 
the  Browns  hold  a  manoeuvre  together — this  year  on 
their  side  and  next  year  on  ours." 

The  biggest  roar  yet  rose  from  throats  that  had  been 
venting  a  tender  tone.  Only  the  slow  Eugene  Aronson 
was  blank  and  puzzled.  But  directly  he,  too,  broke  into 
laughter,  louder  and  more  prolonged  than  the  others. 

"You  can  be  so  solemn  that  it  takes  a  minute  to  see 
your  joke,"  he  said. 

"And  humorous  when  we  expect  him  to  be  solemn — 
and,  presto,  there  he  goes!"  added  the  judge's  son. 

Hugo's  lips  were  twitching  peculiarly. 

"Look  at  him!"  exclaimed  the  manufacturer's  son. 
"Oh,  you've  had  us  all  going  this  afternoon,  you  old 
farceur,  you,  Hugo!" 

In  the  silence  that  waited  on  another  extravagance 
from  the  entertainer  the  sergeant  entered  the  room. 

"We  shall  entrain  to-morrow  morning!"  he  announced. 
"We  are  going  to  South  La  Tir  on  the  frontier." 

Oh,  joy!  Oh,  lucky  i28th!  It  was  to  see  still  more 
of  the  world!  The  sergeant  stood  by  listening  to  the 
uproar  and  cautioning  the  men  not  to  overturn  the 
tables  and  benches.  Even  the  banker's  and  the  manu 
facturer's  sons,  who  had  toured  the  country  from  frontier 
to  frontier  in  paternal  automobiles,  were  as  happy  as 
the  laborer's  son. 

"What  fun  it  would  be  if  we  could  visit  back  and 
forth  with  the  fellows  on  the  other  side  of  the  frontier!" 
said  Hugo. 

"What  the— eh!"  exclaimed  the  sergeant.  "Will  you 
never  stop  your  joking,  you,  Hugo  Mallin?" 

"Never,  sir,"  replied  Hugo  dryly.  "It  comes  natural 
tome!" 


VI 
THE  SECOND  PROPHECY 

IN  the  reception-room,  where  he  awaited  the  despatch 
of  his  card,  Hedworth  Westerling  caught  a  glimpse  of 
his  person  in  a  panel  glass  so  convenient  as  to  suggest 
that  an  adroit  hotel  manager  might  have  placed  it  there 
for  the  delectation  of  well-preserved  men  of  forty-two. 
He  saw  a  face  of  health  that  was  little  lined;  brown  hair 
that  did  not  reveal  its  sprinkle  of  gray  at  that  distance; 
shoulders,  bearing  the  gracefully  draped  gold  cords  of 
the  staff,  squarely  set  on  a  rigid  spine  in  his  natural  at 
titude.  Yes,  he  had  taken  good  care  of  himself,  enjoy 
ing  his  pleasures  with  discreet,  epicurean  relish  as  he 
would  this  meeting  with  a  woman  whom  he  had  not 
seen  for  ten  years. 

On  her  part,  Marta,  when  she  had  received  the  note, 
had  been  in  doubt  as  to  her  answer.  Her  curiosity  to 
see  him  again  was  not  of  itself  compelling.  The  actual 
making  of  the  prophecy  was  rather  dim  to  her  mind 
until  he  recalled  it.  She  had  heard  of  his  rise  and  she 
had  heard,  too,  things  about  him  which  a  girl  of  twenty- 
seven  can  better  understand  than  a  girl  of  seventeen. 
His  reason  for  wanting  to  see  her  he  had  said  was  to 
"renew  an  old  acquaintance."  He  could  have  little 
interest  in  her,  and  her  interest  in  him  was  that  he  was 
head  of  the  Gray  army.  His  work  had  intimate  rela 
tion  to  that  which  the  Marta  of  twenty-seven,  a  Marta 
with  a  mission,  had  set  for  herself. 

A  page  came  to  tell  Westerling  that  Miss  Galland 
would  be  down  directly.  But  before  she  came  a  waiter 
entered  with  a  tea-tray. 

43 


44  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"By  the  lady's  direction,  sir,"  he  explained  as  he  set 
the  tray  on  a  table  opposite  Westerling. 

Across  a  tea-table  the  prophecy  had  been  made  and 
across  a  tea-table  they  had  held  most  of  their  talks. 
Having  a  picture  in  memory  for  comparison,  he  was 
seeing  the  doorway  as  the  frame  for  a  second  picture. 
When  she  appeared  the  picture  seemed  the  same  as  of 
old.  There  was  an  undeniable  delight  in  this  first  im 
pression  of  externals.  There  had  been  no  promise  that 
she  would  be  beautiful,  and  she  was  not.  There  had  been 
promise  of  distinction,  and  she  seemed  to  have  fulfilled 
it.  For  a  second  she  paused  on  the  threshold  rather 
diffidently.  Then  she  smiled  as  she  had  when  she 
greeted  him  from  the  veranda  as  he  came  up  the  terrace 
steps.  She  crossed  the  room  with  a  flowing,  spontane 
ous  vitality  that  appealed  to  him  as  something  fa 
miliar. 

"Ten  years,  isn't  it?"  she  exclaimed,  putting  a  gen 
uine  quality  of  personal  interest  into  the  words  as  she 
gave  his  hand  a  quick,  firm  shake.  Then,  with  the  in 
formality  of  old  acquaintances  who  had  parted  only 
yesterday,  she  indicated  a  place  on  the  sofa  for  him, 
while  she  seated  herself  on  the  other  side  of  the  tea-table. 
"The  terrace  there  in  the  foreground,"  she  said  with 
conforming  gestures  of  location,  "the  church  steeple  over 
the  town,  the  upward  sweep  of  the  mountains,  and  there 
the  plain  melting  into  the  horizon.  And,  let  me  see,  you 
took  two  lumps,  if  I  remember?" 

He  would  have  known  the  hand  that  poised  over 
the  sugar  bowl  though  he  had  not  seen  the  face;  a 
brownish  hand,  not  long-fingered,  not  narrow  for  its 
length — a  compact,  deft,  firm  little  hand. 

"None  now,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  find  it  fattening?"  she  asked. 

He  recognized  the  mischievous  sparkle  of  the  eyes,  the 
quizzical  turn  of  the  lips,  which  was  her  asset  in  keeping 
any  question  from  being  personal.  Nevertheless,  he 
flushed  slightly. 


THE  SECOND  PROPHECY  45 

"A  change  of  taste,"  he  averred. 

" Since  you've  become  such  a  great  man?"  she  haz 
arded.  "  Is  that  too  strong?  "  This  referred  to  the  tea. 

"No,  just  right!"  he  nodded. 

He  was  studying  her  with  the  polite,  veiled  scrutiny  of 
a  man  of  the  world .  A  materialist,  he  would  look  a  woman 
over  as  he  would  a  soldier  when  he  had  been  a  major- 
general  making  an  inspection.  She  was  slim,  supple; 
he  liked  slim,  supple  women.  Her  eyes,  though  none 
the  less  luminous,  and  her  lips,  though  none  the  less 
flexible,  did  not  seem  quite  as  out  of  proportion  with 
the  rest  of  her  face  as  formerly,  now  that  it  had  taken 
on  the  contour  of  maturity,  which  was  noticeable  also 
in  the  lines  of  her  figure.  Yes,  she  was  twenty-seven, 
with  the  vivacity  of  seventeen  retained,  though  she  were 
on  the  edge  of  being  an  old  maid  according  to  the  con 
ventional  notions.  Necks  and  shoulders  that  happened 
to  be  at  his  side  at  dinner,  he  had  found,  when  they  were 
really  beautiful,  were  not  averse  to  his  glance  of  appreci 
ative  and  discriminating  admiration  of  physical  charm. 
But  he  saw  her  shrug  slightly  and  caught  a  spark  from 
her  eyes  that  made  him  vaguely  conscious  of  an  offence 
to  her  sensibilities,  and  he  was  wholly  conscious  that  the 
suggestion,  bringing  his  faculties  up  sharply,  had  the 
pleasure  of  a  novel  sensation. 

"How  fast  you  have  gone  ahead!"  she  said.  "That 
little  prophecy  of  mine  did  come  true.  You  are  chief  of 
staff!" 

After  a  smile  of  satisfaction  he  corrected  her. 

"Not  quite;  vice-chief — the  right-hand  man  of  His 
Excellency.  I  am  a  buffer  between  him  and  the  heads 
of  divisions.  This  has  led  to  the  erroneous  assumption 
which  I  cannot  too  forcibly  deny " 

He  was  proceeding  with  the  phraseology  habitual 
whenever  men  or  women,  to  flatter  him,  had  intimated 
that  they  realized  that  he  was  the  actual  head  of  the 
army.  His  Excellency,  with  the  prestige  of  a  career, 
must  be  kept  soporifically  enjoying  the  forms  of  author- 


46  THE  LAST  SHOT 

ity.  To  arouse  his  jealousy  might  curtail  Westerling's 
actual  power. 

"Yes,  yes!"  breathed  Marta  softly,  arching  her  eye 
brows  a  trifle  as  she  would  when  looking  all  around  and 
through  a  thing  or  when  she  found  any  one  beating  about 
the  bush.  The  little  frown  disappeared  and  she  smiled 
understandingly.  "You  know  I'm  not  a  perfect  goose!" 
she  added.  "Had  you  been  made  chief  of  staff  in  name, 
too,  all  the  old  generals  would  have  been  in  the  sulks 
and  the  young  generals  jealous,"  she  continued.  "The 
one  way  that  you  might  have  the  power  to  exercise  was 
by  proxy." 

This  downright  frankness  was  another  reflection  of  the 
old  days  before  he  was  at  the  apex  of  the  pyramid. 
Now  it  was  so  unusual  in  his  experience  as  to  be  almost 
a  shock.  On  the  point  of  arguing,  he  caught  a  mischie 
vous,  delightful  "Isn't  that  so?"  in  her  eyes,  and  re 
plied: 

"Yes,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  were!" 

Why  shouldn't  he  admit  the  truth  to  the  one  who 
had  rung  the  bell  of  his  secret  ambition  long  ago  by 
recognizing  in  him  the  ability  to  reach  his  goal?  He 
marvelled  at  her  grasp  of  the  situation. 

"It  wasn't  so  very  hard  to  say,  was  it?"  she  asked 
happily,  in  response  to  his  smile.  Then,  her  gift  of 
putting  herself  in  another's  place,  while  she  strove  to 
look  at  things  with  his  purpose  and  vision,  in  full  play, 
she  went  on  in  a  different  tone,  as  much  to  herself  as 
to  him:  ^"You  have  labored  to  make  yourself  master 
of  a  mighty  organization.  You  did  not  care  for  the 
non-essentials.  You  wanted  the  reality  of  shaping  re 
sults." 

"Yes,  the  results,  the  power!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Fifteen  hundred  regiments!"  she  continued  thought 
fully,  looking  at  a  given  point  rather  than  at  him. 
"Every  regiment  a  blade  which  you  would  bring  to  an 
even  sharpness!  Every  regiment  a  unit  of  a  harmonious 
whole,  knowing  how  to  screen  itself  from  fire  and  give 


THE  SECOND  PROPHECY  47 

fire  as  long  as  bidden,  in  answer  to  your  will  if  war  comes! 
That  is  what  you  live  and  plan  for,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  exactly!  Yes,  you  have  it!"  he  said.  His 
shoulders  stiffened  as  he  thrilled  at  seeing  a  picture  of 
himself,  as  he  wanted  to  see  himself,  done  in  bold  strokes. 
It  assured  him  that  not  only  had  his  own  mind  grown 
beyond  what  were  to  him  the  narrow  associations  of  his 
old  La  Tir  days,  but  that  hers  had  grown,  too.  "And 
you — what  have  you  been  doing  all  these  years?"  he 
asked. 

"Living  the  life  of  a  woman  on  a  country  estate," 
she  replied.  "  Since  you  made  a  rule  that  no  Gray  officers 
should  cross  the  frontier  we  have  been  a  little  lonelier, 
having  only  the  Brown  officers  to  tea.  Did  you  really 
find  it  so  bad  for  discipline  in  your  own  case?"  she  con 
cluded  with  playful  solemnity. 

"One  cannot  consider  individual  cases  in  a  general 
order,"  he  explained.  "And,  remember,  the  Browns 
made  the  ruling  first.  You  see,  every  year  means  a 
tightening — yes,  a  tightening,  as  arms  and  armies  grow 
more  complicated  and  the  maintaining  of  staff  secrets 
more  important.  And  you  have  been  all  the  time  at  La 
Tir,  truly?"  he  asked,  changing  the  subject.  He  was 
convinced  that  she  had  acquired  something  that  could 
not  be  gained  on  the  outskirts  of  a  provincial  town. 

"No.  I  have  travelled.  I  have  been  quite  around 
the  world." 

"You  have!"  This  explained  much.  "How  I  envy 
you!  That  is  a  privilege  I  shall  not  know  until  I  am 
superannuated."  While  he  should  remain  chief  of  staff 
he  must  be  literally  a  prisoner  in  his  own  country. 

"Yes,  I  should  say  it  was  splendid!  Splendid — yes, 
indeed!"  Snappy  little  nods  of  the  head  being  unequal 
to  expressing  the  joy  of  the  memories  that  her  exclama 
tion  evoked,  she  clasped  her  hands  over  her  knees  and 
swung  back  and  forth  in  the  ecstasy  of  seventeen. 
"Splendid!  I  should  say  so!"  She  nestled  the  curling 
tip  of  her  tongue  against  her  teeth,  as  if  the  recollection 


48  THE  LAST  SHOT 

must  also  be  tasted.  "Splendid,  enchanting,  en 
lightening,  stupendous,  and  wickedly  expensive!  An 
other  girl  and  I  did  it  all  on  our  own." 

"O-oh!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  oh,  oh!"  she  repeated  after  him.  "Oh,  what, 
please?" 

"Oh,  nothing!"  he  said.  It  was  quite  comprehen 
sible  to  him  how  well  equipped  she  was  to  take  care  of 
herself  on  such  an  adventure. 

"Precisely,  when  you  come  to  think  it  over!"  she 
concluded. 

"What  interested  you  most?  What  was  the  big 
lesson  of  all  your  journeying?"  he  asked,  ready  to  play 
the  listener. 

"Being  born  and  bred  on  a  frontier,  of  an  ancestry 
that  was  born  and  bred  on  a  frontier,  why,  frontiers  in 
terested  me  most,"  she  said.  "I  collected  impressions 
of  frontiers  as  some  people  collect  pictures.  I  found 
them  all  alike — stupid;  just  stupid!  Oh,  so  stupid!" 
Her  frown  grew  with  the  repetition  of  the  word;  her 
fingers  closed  in  on  her  palm  in  vexation.  He  recol 
lected  that  he  had  seen  her  like  this  two  or  three  times 
at  La  Tir,  when  he  had  found  the  outbursts  most  enter 
taining.  He  imagined  that  the  small  fist  pressed  against 
the  table  edge  could  deliver  a  stinging  blow.  "As  stupid 
as  it  is  for  neighbors  to  quarrel!  It  put  me  at  war  with 
all  frontiers." 

"Apparently,"  he  said. 

She  withdrew  her  fist  from  the  table,  dropped  the 
opened  hand  over  the  other  on  her  knee,  her  body  re 
laxing,  her  wrath  passing  into  a  kind  of  shamefaced- 
ness  and  then  into  a  soft,  prolonged  laugh. 

"I  laugh  at  myself,  at  my  own  inconsistency,"  she 
said.  "I  was  warlike  against  war.  At  all  events,  if 
there  is  anything  to  make  a  teacher  of  peace  lose  her 
temper  it  is  the  folly  of  frontiers." 

"Yes?"  he  exclaimed.  "Yes?  Go  on!;'  And  he 
thought:  "I'm  really  having  a  very  good  time." 


THE  SECOND  PROPHECY  49 

"You  see,  I  came  home  from  my  tour  with  an  idea — 
an  idea  for  a  life  occupation  just  as  engrossing  as  yours," 
she  went  on,  "and  opposed  to  yours.  I  saw  there  was 
no  use  of  working  with  the  grown-up  folks.  They  must 
be  left  to  The  Hague  conferences  and  the  peace  societies. 
But  children  are  quite  alike  the  world  over.  You  can 
plant  thoughts  in  the  young  that  will  take  root  and  grow 
as  they  grow." 

"Patriotism,  for  instance,"  he  observed  narrowly. 

"No,  the  follies  of  martial  patriotism!  The  wicked 
ness  of  war,  which  is  the  product  of  martial  patriotism!" 

The  follies  of  patriotism!  This  was  the  red  flag  of 
anarchy  to  him.  He  started  to  speak,  flushing  angrily, 
but  held  his  tongue  and  only  emitted  a  "whew!"  in 
good-humored  wonder. 

"I  see  you  are  not  very  frightened  by  my  opposition," 
she  rejoined  in  a  flash  of  amusement  not  wholly  un- 
tempered  by  exasperation. 

"We  got  the  appropriation  for  an  additional  army 
corps  this  year,"  he  explained  contentedly,  his  repose 
completely  regained. 

"Thus  increasing  the  odds  against  us.  But  perhaps 
not;  for  we  are  dealing  with  the  children  not  with  re- 
Bruits,  as  I  said.  We  call  ourselves  the  teachers  of  peace. 
I  organized  the  first  class  in  La  Tir.  I  have  the  chil 
dren  come  together  every  Sunday  morning  and  I  tell 
them  about  the  children  that  live  in  other  countries. 
I  tell  them  that  a  child  a  thousand  miles  away  is  just  as 
much  a  neighbor  as  the  one  across  the  street.  At  first 
I  feared  that  they  would  find  it  uninteresting.  But  if 
you  know  how  to  talk  to  them  they  don't." 

"Naturally  they  don't,  when  you  talk  to  them,"  he 
interrupted. 

She  was  so  intent  that  she  passed  over  the  compli 
ment  with  a  gesture  like  that  of  brushing  away  a  cob 
web.  Her  eyes  were  like  deep,  clear  wells  of  faith  and 
purpose. 

"I  try  to  make  the  children  of  other  countries  so  in- 


50  THE  LAST  SHOT 

teresting  that  our  children  will  like  them  too  well  ever 
to  want  to  kill  them  when  they  grow  up.  We  have  a 
little  peace  prayer — they  have  even  come  to  like  to 
recite  it — a  prayer  and  an  oath.  But  I'll  not  bother 
you  with  it.  Other  women  have  taken  up  the  idea.  I 
have  found  a  girl  who  is  going  to  start  a  class  on  your 
side  in  South  La  Tir,  and  I  came  here  to  meet  some  women 
who  want  to  inaugurate  the  movement  in  your  capital." 

"I'll  have  to  see  about  that!"  he  rejoined,  half-banter- 
ingly,  half-threateningly. 

"There  is  something  else  to  come,  even  more  irritat 
ing,"  she  said,  less  intently  and  smiling.  "So  please  be 
prepared  to  hold  your  temper." 

"I  shall  not  beat  my  fist  on  the  table  defending  war 
as  you  did  defending  peace!"  he  retaliated  with  sig 
nificant  enjoyment. 

But  she  used  his  retort  for  an  opening. 

"Oh,  I'd  rather  you  would  do  that  than  jest!  It's 
human.  It's  going  to  war  because  one  is  angry.  You 
would  go  to  war  as  a  matter  of  cold  reason." 

"If  otherwise,  I  should  lose,"  he  replied. 

"Exactly.  You  make  it  easy  for  me  to  approach  my 
point.  I  want  to  prevent  you  from  losing!"  she  an 
nounced  cheerfully  yet  very  seriously. 

"Yes?  Proceed.  I  brace  myself  against  an  explosion 
of  indignation!" 

"It  is  the  duty  of  a  teacher  of  peace  to  use  all  her 
influence  with  the  people  she  knows,"  she  went  on.  "So 
I  am  going  to  ask  you  not  to  let  your  country  ever  go 
to  war  against  mine  while  you  are  chief  of  staff." 

"Mine  against  yours?"  he  equivocated.  "Why,  you 
live  almost  within  gunshot  of  the  line!  Your  people 
have  as  much  Gray  as  Brown  blood  in  their  veins.  Your 
country!  My  country!  Isn't  that  patriotism?" 

"Patriotism,  but  not  martial  patriotism,"  she  cor 
rected  him.  "My  thought  is  to  stop  war  for  both  coun 
tries  as  war,  regardless  of  sides.  Promise  me  that  you 
will  not  permit  it!" 


THE  SECOND  PROPHECY  51 

"I  not  permit  it!"  He  smiled  with  the  kindly  pat 
ronage  of  a  great  man  who  sees  a  charming  woman 
floundering  in  an  attempt  at  logic.  "  It  is  for  the  premier 
to  say.  I  merely  make  the  machine  ready.  The  gov 
ernment  says  the  word  that  makes  it  move.  I  able  to 
stop  war!  Come,  come!" 

"But  you  can — yes,  you  can  with  a  word!"  she  de 
clared  positively. 

"How?"  he  asked,  amazed.  "How?"  he  repeated 
blandly. 

Was  she  teasing  him?  he  wondered.  What  new  re 
sources  of  confusion  had  ten  years  and  a  tour  around 
the  world  developed  in  her?  Was  it  possible  that  the 
whole  idea  of  the  teachers  of  peace  was  an  invention  to 
make  conversation  at  his  expense?  If  so,  she  carried  it 
off  with  a  sincerity  that  suggested  other  depths  yet  un 
sounded. 

"Very  easily,"  she  answered.  "You  can  tell  the 
premier  that  you  cannot  win.  Tell  him  that  you  will 
break  your  army  to  pieces  against  the  Browns'  forti 
fications!" 

He  gasped.  Then  an  inner  voice  prompted  him  that 
the  cue  was  comedy. 

"Excellent  fooling — excellent!"  he  said  with  a  laugh. 
"Tell  the  premier  that  I  should  lose  when  I  have  five 
million  men  to  their  three  million!  What  a  harlequin 
chief  of  staff  I  should  be!  Excellent  fooling!  You  al 
most  had  me!" 

Again  he  laughed,  though  in  the  fashion  of  one  who 
had  hardly  unbent  his  spine,  while  he  was  wishing  for 
the  old  days  when  he  might  take  tea  with  her  one  or 
two  afternoons  a  week.  It  would  be  a  fine  tonic  after 
his  isolation  at  the  apex  of  the  pyramid  surveying  the 
deference  of  the  lower  levels.  Then  he  saw  that  her 
eyes,  shimmering  with  wonder,  grew  dull  and  her  lips 
parted  in  a  rigid,  pale  line  as  if  she  were  hurt. 

"You  think  I  am  joking?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  yes!" 


52  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"But  I  am  not!  No,  no,  not  about  such  a  ghastly 
subject  as  a  war  to-day!"  She  was  leaning  toward  him, 
hands  on  knee  and  eyes  burning  like  coals  without  a 
spark.  "I' — she  paused  as  she  had  before  she  broke 
out  with  the  first  prophecy — "I  will  quote  part  of  our 
children's  oath:  'I  will  not  be  a  coward.  It  is  a  coward 
who  strikes  first.  A  brave  man  even  after  he  receives 
a  blow  tries  to  reason  with  his  assailant,  and  does  not 
strike  back  until  he  receives  a  second  blow.  I  shall  not 
let  a  burglar  drive  me  from  my  house.  If  an  enemy 
tries  to  take  my  land  I  shall  appeal  to  his  sense  of  jus 
tice  and  reason  with  him,  but  if  he  then  persists  I  shall 
fight  for  my  home.  If  I  am  victorious  I  shall  not  try 
to  take  his  land  but  to  make  the  most  of  my  own.  I 
shall  never  cross  a  frontier  to  kill  my  fellowmen.' ' 

Very  impressive  she  made  the  oath.  Her  deliberate 
recital  of  it  had  the  quality  which  justifies  every  word 
with  an  urgent  faith. 

"You  see,  with  that  teaching  there  can  be  no  war," 
she  proceeded,  "and  those  who  strike  will  be  weak; 
those  who  defend  will  be  strong." 

"Perhaps,"  he  said. 

"You  would  not  like  to  see  thousands,  hundreds  of 
thousands,  of  men  killed  and  maimed,  would  you?"  she 
demanded,  and  her  eyes  held  the  horror  of  the  sight  in 
reality.  "You  can  prevent  it — you  can!"  Her  heart 
was  in  the  appeal. 

"The  old  argument!  No,  I  should  not  like  to  see 
that,"  he  replied.  "I  only  do  my  duty  as  a  soldier  to 
my  country." 

"The  old  answer!  The  more  reason  why  you  should 
tell  the  premier  you  can't!  But  there  is  still  another 
reason  for  telling  him,"  she  urged  gently. 

Now  he  saw  her  not  at  twenty-seven  but  at  seventeen, 
girlish,  the  subject  of  no  processes  of  reason  but  in  the 
spell  of  an  intuition,  and  he  knew  that  something  out  of 
the  blue  in  a  flash  was  coming. 

"For  you  will  not  win!"  she  declared. 


THE  SECOND  PROPHECY  53 

This  struck  fire.  Square  jaw  and  sturdy  body,  in 
masculine  energy,  resolute  and  trained,  were  set  indomi 
tably  against  feminine  vitality. 

"Yes,  we  shall  win!  We  shall  win!"  he  said  without 
even  the  physical  demonstration  of  a  gesture  and  in  a 
hard,  even  voice  which  was  like  that  of  the  machinery 
of  modern  war  itself,  a  voice  which  the  aristocratic  sniff, 
the  Louis  XVI.  curls,  or  any  of  the  old  gallery-display 
heroes  would  have  thought  utterly  lacking  in  histri 
onics  suitable  to  the  occasion.  He  remained  rigid  after 
he  had  spoken,  handsome,  self-possessed. 

There  was  no  use  of  beating  feminine  fists  against 
such  a  stone  wall.  The  force  of  the  male  was  supreme. 
She  smiled  with  a  strange,  quivering  loosening  of  the 
lips.  She  spread  out  her  hands  with  fingers  apart,  as  if 
to  let  something  run  free  from  them  into  the  air,  and  the 
flame  of  appeal  that  had  been  in  her  eyes  broke  into 
many  lights  that  seemed  to  scatter  into  space,  yet  ready 
to  return  at  her  command.  She  glanced  at  the  clock 
and  rose,  almost  abruptly. 

"I  was  very  strenuous  riding  my  hobby  against  yours, 
wasn't  I?"  she  exclaimed  in  a  flutter  of  distraction  that 
made  it  easy  for  him  to  descend  from  his  own  steed. 
"I  stated  a  feeling.  I  made  a  guess,  a  threat  about  your 
winning — and  all  in  the  air.  That's  a  woman's  privilege; 
one  men  grant,  isn't  it?" 

"We  enjoy  doing  so,"  he  replied,  all  urbanity. 

"Thank  you!"  she  said  simply.  "I  must  be  at  home 
in  time  for  the  children's  lesson  on  Sunday.  My  sleeper 
is  engaged,  and  if  I  am  not  to  miss  the  train  I  must  go 
immediately." 

With  an  undeniable  shock  of  regret  he  realized  that 
the  interview  was  over.  Really,  he  had  had  a  very  good 
time;  not  only  that,  but 

"Will  it  be  ten  years  before  we  meet  again?"  he 
asked. 

"Perhaps,  unless  you  change  the  rules  about  officers 
crossing  the  frontier  to  take  tea,"  she  replied. 


54  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"Even  if  I  did,  the  vice-chief  of  staff  might  hardly 
go." 

"Then  perhaps  you  must  wait,"  she  warned  him, 
"until  the  teachers  of  peace  have  done  away  with  all 
frontiers." 

"Or,  if  there  were  war,  I  should  come!"  he  answered 
in  kind.  He  half  wished  that  this  might  start  another 
argument  and  she  would  miss  her  train.  But  she  made 
no  reply.  "And  you  may  come  to  the  Gray  capital 
again.  You  are  not  through  travelling!"  he  added. 

This  aroused  her  afresh;  the  flame  was  back  in  her 
eyes. 

"Yes.  I  have  all  the  memories  of  my  journeys  to  en 
joy,  all  their  lessons  to  study,"  she  said.  "There  is  the 
big  world,  and  you  want  to  have  had  the  breath  of  all 
its  climates  in  your  lungs,  the  visions  of  all  its  peoples 
yours.  Then  the  other  thing  is  three  acres  and  a  cow. 
If  you  could  only  have  the  solidarity  of  the  Japanese, 
their  public  spirit,  with  the  old  Chinese  love  of  family 
and  peace,  and  a  cathedral  near-by  on  a  hill !  Patriot 
ism?  Why,  it  is  in  the  soil  of  your  three  acres.  I  love 
to  feel  the  warm,  rich  earth  of  our  own  garden  in  my 
hands!  Hereafter  I  shall  be  a  stay-at-home;  and  if  my 
children  win,"  she  held  out  her  hand  in  parting  with  the 
same  frank,  earnest  grip  of  her  greeting,  "why,  you  will 
find  that  tea  is,  as  usual,  at  four-thirty." 

He  had  found  the  women  of  his  high  official  world— 
a  narrower  world  than  he  realized — much  alike.  Strik 
ing  certain  keys,  certain  chords  responded.  He  could 
probe  the  depths  of  their  minds,  he  thought,  in  a  single 
evening.  Then  he  passed  on,  unless  it  was  in  the  in 
terest  of  pleasure  or  of  his  career  to  linger.  This  meet 
ing  had  left  his  curiosity  baffled.  He  understood  how 
Marta's  vitality  demanded  action,  which  exerted  itself 
in  a  feminine  way  for  a  feminine  cause.  The  cure  for 
such  a  fad  was  most  clear  to  his  masculine  perception. 
What  if  all  the  power  she  had  shown  in  her  appeal  for 
peace  could  be  made  to  serve  another  ambition?  He 


THE  SECOND  PROPHECY  55 

knew  that  he  was  a  great  man.  More  than  once  he  had 
wondered  what  would  happen  if  he  were  to  meet  a  great 
woman.  And  he  should  not  see  Marta  Galland  again 
unless  war  came. 


VII 
TIMES  HAVE  CHANGED 

A  PRODIGIOUS  brown  worm,  its  body  turning  and  ris 
ing  and  falling  with  the  grade  and  throbbing  with  the 
march  of  its  centipede  feet,  wound  its  way  along  a  rising 
mountain  road.  In  the  strong,  youthful  figures  set  in 
the  universal  type  of  military  mould  it  might  have  been 
a  regiment  of  any  one  of  many  nations-  but  the  tint  of 
its  uniform  was  the  brown  of  the  nine  hundred  regi 
ments  that  prepared  for  war  against  the  gray  of  the 
fifteen  hundred  under  Hedworth  Westerling. 

The  53d  of  the  Browns  had  started  for  La  Tir  on  the 
same  day  that  the  i28th  of  the  Grays  had  started  for 
South  La  Tir.  While  the  i28th  was  going  to  new 
scenes,  the  53d  was  returning  to  familiar  ground.  It 
had  detrained  in  the  capital  of  the  province  from  which 
its  ranks  had  been  recruited.  After  a  steep  incline,  there 
was  a  welcome  bugle  note  and  with  shouts  of  delight 
the  centipede's  legs  broke  apart!  Bankers',  laborers', 
doctors',  valets',  butchers',  manufacturers',  and  judges' 
sons  threw  themselves  down  on  the  greensward  of  the 
embankment  to  rest.  With  their  talk  of  home,  of  rela 
tives  whom  they  had  met  at  the  station,  and  of  the 
changes  in  the  town  was  mingled  talk  of  the  crisis. 

Meanwhile,  an  aged  man  was  approaching.  At  times 
he  would  break  into  a  kind  of  trot  that  ended,  after  a 
few  steps,  in  shortness  of  breath.  He  was  quite  withered, 
his  bright  eyes  twinkling  out  of  an  area  of  moth  patches, 
and  he  wore  a  frayed  uniform  coat  with  a  medal  on  the 
breast. 

"Is  this  the  53d?"  he  quavered  to  the  nearest  soldier. 

"It  certainly  is!"  some  one  answered.  "Come  and 
join  us,  veteran!" 

56 


TIMES  HAVE  CHANGED  57 

"Is  Tom— Tom  Fragini  here?" 

The  answer  came  from  a  big  soldier,  who  sprang  to 
his  feet  and  leaped  toward  the  old  man. 

"It's  grandfather,  as  I  live!"  he  called  out,  kissing 
the  veteran  on  both  cheeks.  "I  saw  sister  in  town,  and 
she  said  you'd  be  at  the  gate  as  we  marched  by." 

"Didn't  wait  at  no  gate!  Marched  right  up  to  you!" 
said  grandfather.  "Marched  up  with  my  uniform  and 
medal  on!  Stand  off  there,  Tom,  so  I  can  see  you.  My 
word!  You're  bigger'n  your  father,  but  not  bigger'n 
I  was!  No,  sir,  not  bigger'n  I  was  in  my  day  before 
that  wound  sort  o'  bent  me  over.  They  say  it's  the 
lead  in  the  blood.  I've  still  got  the  bullet!" 

The  old  man's  trousers  were  threadbare  but  well 
darned,  and  the  holes  in  the  uppers  of  his  shoes  were 
carefully  patched.  He  had  a  merry  air  of  optimism, 
which  his  grandson  had  inherited. 

"Well,  Tom,  how  much  longer  you  got  to  serve?" 
asked  grandfather. 

"Six  months,"  answered  Tom. 

"One,  two,  three,  four—  '  grandfather  counted  the 
numbers  off  on  his  fingers.  "That's  good.  You'll  be 
in  time  for  the  spring  ploughing.  My,  how  you  have  filled 
out!  But,  somehow,  I  can't  get  used  to  this  kind  of 
uniform.  Why,  I  don't  see  how  a  girl'd  be  attracted 
to  you  fellows,  at  all!" 

"They  have  to,  for  we're  the  only  kind  of  soldiers 
there  are  nowadays.  Not  as  gay  as  in  your  day,  that's 
sure,  when  you  were  in  the  Hussars,  eh?" 

"Yes,  I  was  in  the  Hussars — in  the  Hussars!  I  tell 
you,  with  our  sabres  a-gleaming,  our  horses'  bits  a-jin- 
gling,  our  pennons  a-flying,  and  all  the  color  of  our 
uniform — I  tell  you,  the  girls  used  to  open  their  eyes 
at  us.  And  we  went  into  the  charge  like  that — yes, 
sir,  just  that  gay  and  grand,  Colonel  Galland  lead 
ing!" 

Military  history  said  that  it  had  been  a  rather  fool 
ish  charge,  a  fine  example  of  the  vainglory  of  unreason- 


58  THE  LAST  SHOT 

ing  bravery  that  accomplishes  nothing,  but  no  one  would 
suggest  such  scepticism  of  an  immortal  event  in  popular 
imagination  in  hearing  of  the  old  man  as  he  lived  over 
that  intoxicated  rush  of  horses  and  men  into  a  battery 
of  the  Grays. 

"Well,  didn't  you  find  what  I  said  was  true  about  the 
lowlanders?"  asked  grandfather  after  he  had  finished 
the  charge,  referring  to  the  people  of  the  southern 
frontier  of  the  Browns,  where  the  53d  had  just  been  gar 
risoned. 

"No,  I  kind  of  liked  them.  I  made  a  lot  of  friends," 
admitted  Tom.  "They're  very  progressive." 

"Eh?  eh?  You're  joking!""  To  like  the  people  of 
the  southern  frontier  was  only  less  conceivable  than 
liking  the  people  of  the  Grays.  "That's  because  you 
didn't  see  deep  under  them.  They're  all  on  the  out 
side — a  flighty  lot!  Why,  if  they'd  done  their  part  in 
that  last  war  we'd  have  licked  the  Grays  until  they  cried 
for  mercy!  If  their  army  corps  had  stood  its  ground  at 
Volmer 

"So  you've  always  said,"  interrupted  Tom. 

"And  the  way  they  cook  tripe!  I  couldn't  stomach  it, 
could  you?  And  if  there's  anything  I  am  partial  to  it's 
a  good  dish  of  tripe!  And  their  light  beer — like  drink 
ing  froth!  And  their  bread — why,  it  ain't  bread!  It's 
chips!  Taint  fit  for  civilized  folks!" 

"But  I  sort  of  got  used  to  their  ways,"  said  Tom. 

"Eh?  eh?"  Grandfather  looked  at  grandson  quiz 
zically,  seeking  the  cause  of  such  heterodoxy  in  a  northern 
man.  "Say,  you  ain't  been  falling  in  love?"  he  haz 
arded.  "You — you  ain't  going  to  bring  one  of  them 
southern  girls  home?" 

"No!"  said  Tom  laughing. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  ain't,  for  they're  naturally  light- 
minded.  I  remember  'em  well."  He  wandered  on  with 
his  questions  and  comments.  "Is  it  a  fact,  Tom,  or 
was  you  just  joking  when  you  wrote  home  that  the 
soldiers  took  so  many  baths?" 


TIMES  HAVE  CHANGED  59 

"Yes,  they  do." 

"Well,  that  beats  me!  It's  a  wonder  you  didn't  all 
die  of  pneumonia!"  He  paused  to  absorb  the  phenome 
non.  Then  his  half-childish  mind,  prompted  by  a 
random  recollection,  flitted  to  another  subject  which 
set  him  to  giggling.  "And  the  little  crawlers — did  they 
bother  you  much,  the  little  crawlers?" 

"The  little  crawlers?"  repeated  Tom,  mystified. 

"Yes.  Everybody  used  to  get  'em  just  from  living 
close  together.  Had  to  comb  'em  out  and  pick  'em  out 
of  your  clothes.  The  chase  we  used  to  call  it." 

"No,  grandfather,  crawlers  have  gone  out  of  fashion. 
And  no  more  epidemics  of  typhoid  and  dysentery  either," 
said  Tom. 

"Times  have  certainly  changed!"  grumbled  Grand 
father  Fragini. 

Interested  in  their  own  reunion,  they  had  paid  no  atten 
tion  to  a  group  of  Tom's  comrades  near-by,  sprawled 
around  a  newspaper  containing  the  latest  despatches  from 
both  capitals.  It  was  a  group  as  typical  as  that  of  the 
Grays  around  Hugo  Mallin's  cot,-  only  the  common  voice 
was  that  of  defence. 

"Five  million  soldiers  to  our  three  million!" 

"Eighty  million  people  to  our  fifty  million!" 

"Because  of  the  odds,  they  think  we  are  bound  to 
yield,  no  matter  if  we  are  in  the  right!" 

"Let  them  come!"  said  the  butcher's  son.  "If  we 
have  to  go,  it  will  be  on  a  wave  of  blood." 

"And  they  will  come  some  time,"  said  the  judge's 
son.  "They  want  our  land." 

"We  gain  nothing  if  we  beat  them  back.  War  will  be 
the  ruin  of  business,"  said  the  banker's  son. 

1 1  Yes,  we  are  prosperous  now.  Let  well  enough  alone ! " 
said  the  manufacturer's  son. 

"Some  say  it  makes  wages  higher,"  said  the  laborer's 
son,  "but  I  am  thinking  it's  a  poor  way  of  raising  your 
pay." 

"There  won't  be  any  war,"  said  the  banker's  son. 


60  THE  LAST  SHOT 

''There  can't  be  without  credit.  The  banking  interests 
will  not  permit  it." 

"There  can  always  be  war,"  said  the  judge's  son, 
"always  when  one  people  determines  to  strike  at  another 
people — even  if  it  brings  bankruptcy." 

"It  would  be  a  war  that  would  make  all  others  in  his 
tory  a  mere  exchange  of  skirmishes.  Every  able-bodied 
man  in  line — automatics  a  hundred  shots  a  minute- 
guns  a  dozen  shots  a  minute — and  aeroplanes  and  diri 
gibles!"  said  the  manufacturer's  son. 

"To  the  death,  too!" 

"And  not  for  glory!  We  of  the  53d  who  live  on  the 
frontier  will  be  fighting  for  our  homes." 

"If  we  lose  them  we'll  never  get  them  back.  Better 
die  than  be  beaten!" 

There  was  no  humorist  Hugo  Mallin  in  this  group;  no 
nimble  fancy  to  send  heresy  skating  over  thin  ice;  but 
there  was  Herbert  Stransky,  with  deep-set  eyes,  slightly 
squinting  inward,  and  a  heavy  jaw,  an  enormous  man 
who  was  the  best  shot  in  the  company  when  he  cared  to 
be.  He  had  listened  in  silence  to  the  others,  his  rather 
thick  but  expressive  lips  curving  with  cynicism.  His 
only  speech  all  the  morning  had  been  in  the  midst  of 
the  reception  in  the  public  square  of  the  town  when  he 
said: 

"This  home-coming  doesn't  mean  much  to  me. 
Home?  Hell!  The  hedgerows  of  the  world  are  my 
home!" 

He  appeared  older  than  his  years,  and  hard  and  bitter, 
except  when  his  eyes  would  light  with  a  feverish  sort  of 
fire  which  shone  now  as  he  broke  into  a  lull  in  the  talk. 

"Comrades,"  he  began. 

"Let  us  hear  from  the  socialist!"  a  Tory  exclaimed. 

"No,  the  anarchist!"  shouted  a  socialist. 

"There  won't  be  any  war!"  said  Stransky,  his  voice 
gradually  rising  to  the  pitch  of  an  agitator  relishing  the 
sensation  of  his  own  words.  "Patriotism  is  the  played- 
out  trick  of  the  ruling  classes  to  keep  down  the  pro- 


TIMES  HAVE  CHANGED  61 

letariat.  There  won't  be  any  war!  Why?  Because 
there  are  too  many  enlightened  men  on  both  sides  who 
do  the  world's  work.  We  of  the  53d  are  a  provincial 
lot,  but  throughout  our  army  there  are  thousands  upon 
thousands  like  me.  They  march,  they  drill,  but  when 
battle  comes  they  will  refuse  to  fight — my  comrades  in 
heart,  to  whom  the  flag  of  this  country  means  no  more 
than  that  of  any  other  country!" 

"Hold  on!  The  flag  is  sacred!"  cried  the  banker's 
son. 

"Yes,  that  will  do!" 

"Shut  up!" 

Other  voices  formed  a  chorus  of  angry  protest. 

"I  knew  you  thought  it;  now  I've  caught  you!"  This 
from  the  sergeant,  who  had  seen  hard  fighting  against  a 
savage  foe  in  Africa  and  therefore  was  particularly  bitter 
about  the  Bodlapoo  affair.  The  welt  of  a  scar  on  his 
gaunt,  fever-yellowed  cheek  turned  a  deeper  red  as  he 
seized  Stransky  by  the  collar  of  the  blouse. 

Stransky  raised  his  free  hand  as  if  to  strike,  but 
paused  as  he  faced  the  company's  boyish  captain, 
slender  of  figure,  aristocratic  of  feature.  His  indigna 
tion  was  as  evident  as  the  sergeant's,  but  he  was  biting 
his  lips  to  keep  it  under  control. 

"You  heard  what  he  said,  sir?" 

"The  latter  part— enough!" 

"It's  incitation  to  mutiny!    An  example!" 

"Yes,  put  him  under  arrest." 

The  sergeant  still  held  fast  to  the  collar  of  Stransky's 
blouse.  Stransky  could  have  shaken  himself  free,  as  a 
mastiff  frees  himself  from  a  puppy,  but  this  was  resis 
tance  to  arrest  and  he  had  not  yet  made  up  his  mind  to 
go  that  far.  His  muscles  were  weaving  under  the  ser 
geant's  grip,  his  eyes  glowing  as  with  volcanic  fire  wait 
ing  on  the  madness  of  impulse  for  eruption. 

"I  wonder  if  it  is  really  worth  while  to  put  him  un 
der  arrest?"  said  some  one  at  the  edge  of  the  group  in 
amiable  inquiry. 


62  THE  LAST  SHOT 

The  voice  came  from  an  officer  of  about  thirty-five, 
who  apparently  had  strolled  over  from  a  near-by  aero 
plane  station  to  look  at  the  regiment.  From  his  shoulder 
hung  the  gold  cords  of  the  staff.  His  left  hand  thrust 
in  the  pocket  of  his  blouse  heightened  the  ease  of  his 
carriage,  which  was  free  of  conventional  military  stiff 
ness,  while  his  eyes  had  the  peculiar  eagerness  of  a  man 
who  seems  to  find  everything  that  comes  under  his  ob 
servation  interesting  and  significant. 

It  was  Colonel  Arthur  Lanstron,  whose  plane  had 
skimmed  the  Gallands'  garden  wall  for  the  "easy  bump" 
ten  years  ago.  There  was  something  more  than  mere 
titular  respect  in  the  way  the  young  captain  saluted — 
admiration  and  the  diffident,  boyish  glance  of  recog 
nition  which  does  not  presume  to  take  the  lead  in 
recalling  a  slight  acquaintance  with  a  man  of  distinc 
tion. 

"Dellarme!  It's  all  of  two  years  since  we  met  at 
Miss  Galland's,  isn't  it?"  Lanstron  said,  shaking  hands 
with  the  captain. 

"Yes,  just  before  we  were  ordered  south,"  said  Del 
larme,  obviously  pleased  to  be  remembered. 

"I  overheard  your  speech,"  Lanstron  continued, 
nodding  toward  Stransky.  "It  was  very  informing." 

A  crowd  of  soldiers  was  now  pressing  around  Stransky, 
and  in  the  front  rank  was  Grandfather  Fragini. 

"Said  our  flag  was  no  better'n  any  other  flag,  did  he?" 
piped  the  old  man.  "Beat  him  to  a  pulp!  That's 
what  the  Hussars  would  have  done." 

"If  you  don't  mind  telling  it  in  public,  Stransky,  I 
should  like  to  know  your  origin,"  said  Lanstron,  prepared 
to  be  as  considerate  of  an  anarchist's  private  feelings  as 
of  anybody's. 

Stransky  squinted  his  eyes  down  the  bony  bridge  of 
his  nose  and  grinned  sardonically. 

"That  won't  take  long,"  he  answered.  "My  father, 
so  far  as  I  could  identify  him,  died  in  jail  and  my  mother 
of  drink." 


TIMES  HAVE  CHANGED  63 

"That  was  hardly  to  the  purple !"  observed  Lanstron 
thoughtfully. 

"No,  to  the  red!"  answered  Stransky  savagely. 

"I  mean  that  it  was  hardly  inclined  to  make  you  take 
a  roseate  view  of  life  as  a  beautiful  thing  in  a  well- 
ordered  world  where  favors  of  fortune  are  evenly  dis 
tributed,"  continued  Lanstron. 

"Rather  to  make  me  rejoice  in  the  hope  of  a  new  order 
of  things — the  re-creation  of  society!"  Stransky  uttered 
the  sentiment  with  the  triumphant  pride  of  a  pupil  who 
knows  his  text-book  thoroughly. 

By  this  time  the  colonel  commanding  the  regiment, 
who  had  noticed  the  excitement  from  a  distance,  ap 
peared,  forcing  a  gap  for  his  passage  through  the  crowd 
with  sharp  words.  He,  too,  recognized  Lanstron.  After 
they  had  shaken  hands,  the  colonel  scowled  as  he  heard 
the  situation  explained,  with  the  old  sergeant,  still  hold 
ing  fast  to  Stransky's  collar,  a  capable  and  insistent 
witness  for  the  prosecution;  while  Stransky,  the  fire  in 
his  eyes  dying  to  coals,  stared  straight  ahead. 

"It  is  only  a  suggestion,  of  course,"  said  Lanstron, 
speaking  quite  as  a  spectator  to  avoid  the  least  indica 
tion  of  interference  with  the  colonel's  authority,  "but 
it  seems  possible  that  Stransky  has  clothed  his  wrongs 
in  a  garb  that  could  never  set  well  on  his  nature  if  he 
tried  to  wear  it  in  practice.  He  is  really  an  individualist. 
Enraged,  he  would  fight  well.  I  should  like  nothing 
better  than  a  force  of  Stransky s  if  I  had  to  defend  a 
redoubt  in  a  last  stand." 

"Yes,  he  might  fight."  The  colonel  looked  hard  at 
Stransky's  rigid  profile,  with  its  tight  lips  and  chin  as 
firm  as  if  cut  out  of  stone.  "You  never  know  who  will 
fight  in  the  pinch,  they  say.  But  that's  speculation. 
It's  the  example  that  I  have  to  deal  with." 

"He  is  not  of  the  insidious,  plotting  type.  He  spoke 
his  mind  openly,"  suggested  Lanstron.  "If  you  give 
him  the  limit  of  the  law,  why,  he  becomes  a  martyr  to 
persecution.  I  should  say  that  his  remarks  might  pass 
for  barrack-room  gassing." 


64  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  colonel,  taking  the  shortest  way 
out  of  the  difficulty.  "We  will  excuse  the  first  offence." 

"Yes,  sir!"  said  the  sergeant  mechanically  as  he  re 
leased  his  grip  of  the  offender.  "We  had  two  anarchists 
in  my  company  in  Africa,"  he  observed  in  loyal  agree 
ment  with  orders.  "They  fought  like  devils.  The  only 
trouble  was  to  keep  them  from  shooting  innocent  natives 
for  sport." 

Stransky's  collar  was  still  crumpled  on  the  nape  of 
his  neck.  He  remained  stock-still,  staring  down  the 
bridge  of  his  nose.  For  a  full  minute  he  did  not  vouch 
safe  so  much  as  a  glance  upward  over  the  change  in  his 
fortunes.  Then  he  looked  around  at  Lanstron  glower- 
ingly. 

"I  know  who  you  are!"  he  said.  "You  were  born  to 
the  purple.  You  have  had  education,  opportunity,  posi 
tion — everything  that  you  and  your  kind  want  to  keep 
for  your  kind.  You  are  smarter  than  the  others.  You 
would  hang  a  man  with  spider-webs  instead  of  hemp. 
But  I  won't  fight  for  you!  No,  I  won't!" 

He  threw  back  his  head  with  a  determination  in  his 
defiance  so  intense  that  it  had  a  certain  kind  of  dignity 
that  freed  it  of  theatrical  affectation. 

"Yes,  I  was  fortunate;  but  perhaps  nature  was  not 
altogether  unkind  to  you,"  said  Lanstron.  "In  Na 
poleonic  times,  Stransky,  I  think  you  might  even  have 
carried  a  marshal's  baton  in  your  knapsack." 

"You — what  rot!"  A  sort  of  triumph  played  around 
Stransky's  full  lips  and  his  jaw  shot  out  challengingly. 
"No,  never  against  my  comrades  on  the  other  side  of 
the  border!"  he  concluded,  his  dogged  stare  returning. 

Now  the  colonel  gave  the  order  to  fall  in;  the  bugle 
sounded  and  the  centipede's  legs  began  to  assemble 
on  the  road.  But  Stransky  remained  a  statue,  his  rifle 
untouched  on  the  sward.  He  seemed  of  a  mind  to  let 
the  regiment  go  on  without  him. 

"Stransky,  fall  in!"  called  the  sergeant. 

Still  Stransky  did  not  move.  A  comrade  picked  up 
the  rifle  and  fairly  thrust  it  into  his  hands. 


TIMES  HAVE  CHANGED  65 

"Come  on,  Bert,  and  knead  dough  with  the  rest  of 
us ! "  he  whispered.  "  Come  on !  Cheer  up ! "  Evidently 
his  comrades  liked  Stransky. 

"No!"  roared  Stransky,  bringing  the  rifle  down  on 
the  ground  with  a  heavy  blow. 

Then  impulse  broke  through  the  restraint  that  seemed 
to  characterize  the  Lanstron  of  thirty-five.  The  Lan- 
stron  of  twenty-five,  who  had  met  catastrophe  because 
he  was  "wool-gathering,"  asserted  himself.  He  put  his 
hand  on  Stransky's  shoulder.  It  was  a  strong  though 
slim  hand  that  looked  as  if  it  had  been  trained  to  do 
the  work  of  two  hands  in  the  process  of  its  owner's  own 
transformation.  Thus  the  old  sergeant  had  seen  a  gen 
eral  remonstrate  with  a  brave  veteran  who  had  been 
guilty  of  bad  conduct  in  Africa.  The  old  colonel  gasped 
at  such  a  subversion  of  the  dignity  of  rank.  He  saw 
the  army  going  to  the  devil.  But  young  Dellarme, 
watching  with  eager  curiosity,  was  sensible  of  no  famili 
arity  in  the  act.  It  all  depended  on  how  such  a  thing 
was  done,  he  was  thinking. 

"We  all  have  minutes  when  we  are  more  or  less  an 
archists,"  said  Lanstron  in  the  human  appeal  of  one  man 
to  another.  "But  we  don't  want  to  be  judged  by  one 
of  those  minutes.  I  got  a  hand  mashed  up  for  a  mis 
take  that  took  only  a  second.  Think  this  over  to-night 
before  you  act.  Then,  if  you  are  of  the  same  opinion, 
go  to  the  colonel  and  tell  him  so.  Come,  why  not?" 

"All  right,  sir,  you're  so  decent  about  it!"  grumbled 
Stransky,  taking  his  place  in  the  ranks. 

Hep-hep-hep!  the  regiment  started  on  its  way,  with 
Grandfather  Fragini  keeping  at  his  grandson's  side. 

"Makes  me  feel  young  again,  but  it's  darned  solemn 
beside  the  Hussars,  with  their  horses'  bits  a- jingling. 
Times  have  certainly  changed — officers'  hands  in  their 
pockets,  saying  'if  you  don't  mind'  to  a  man  that's 
insulted  the  flag!  Kicking  ain't  good  enough  for  that 
traitor!  Ought  to  hang  him — yes,  sir,  hang  and  draw 
him!" 


66  THE  LAST  SHOT 

Lanstron  watched  the  marching  column  for  a  time. 

" Hep-hep-hep!  It's  the  brown  of  the  infantry  that 
counts  in  the  end,"  he  mused.  "I  liked  that  wall-eyed 
giant.  He's  all  man!" 

Then  his  livening  glance  swept  the  heavens  inquiringly. 
A  speck  in  the  blue,  far  away  in  the  realms  of  atmospheric 
infinity,  kept  growing  in  size  until  it  took  the  form  of  the 
wings  with  which  man  flies.  The  plane  volplaned  down 
with  steady  swiftness,  till  its  racing  shadow  lay  large 
over  the  landscape  for  a  few  seconds  before  it  rose  again 
with  beautiful  ease  and  precision. 

"  Bully  for  you,  Etzel!"  Lanstron  thought,  as  he 
started  back  to  the  aeroplane  station.  "You  belong  in 
the  corps.  We  shall  not  let  you  return  to  your  regiment 
for  a  while.  You've  a  cool  head  and  you'd  charge  a 
church  tower  if  that  were  the  orders." 


VIII 
THANKS  TO  A  BUMBLEBEE 

"HAS  he  changed  much?"  Mrs.  Galland  asked,  when 
she  learned  that  Marta  had  seen  Westerling. 

"  Jove  has  reached  his  own — the  very  top  of  Olympus, 
and  he  likes  the  prospect/'  Marta  replied. 

The  only  home  news  of  importance  that  her  mother 
had  to  impart  related  to  a  tiny  strip  of  paper  with  the 
greeting,  "Hello,  Marta!"  that  had  been  dropped  from 
the  pilot  aeroplane  as  the  Brown  aerial  squadron  flew 
over  the  garden  after  its  race  with  the  Gray.  She  noted 
Marta's  customary  quickening  interest  at  mention  of 
Lanstron's  name.  It  had  become  the  talisman  of  a  hope 
whose  fulfilment  was  always  being  deferred. 

"How  different  Lanny  and  Westerling  are!"  Marta 
exclaimed,  the  picture  of  the  two  men  rising  before  her 
vision.  "Lanny  trying  so  hard  under  the  pressure  of 
his  responsibility  not  to  be  human  and  unable  to  forget 
himself,  and  Westerling  trying,  really  trying,  to  be  human 
at  times,  but  unable  to  forget  that  he  is  Jove!  Did  you 
wave  your  acknowledgments  to  Lanny?" 

"Why,  no!  How  could  I?"  asked  Mrs.  Galland. 
"He  went  over  so  fast  I  didn't  know  it  was  he — a  little 
figure  so  far  overhead." 

"It's  odd,  but  I  think  I'd  know  Lanny  a  mile  away 
by  a  sort  of  instinct,"  said  Marta.  "You  know  I'd  like 
a  gun  that  would  fire  a  bomb  and  drop  a  message  of 
'Hello,  yourself!'  right  on  his  knee.  Wouldn't  that  give 
him  a  surprise?" 

"You  and  he  are  so  full  of  nonsense  that  you — " 
But  Mrs.  Galland  desisted.  What  was  the  use? 

67 


68  THE  LAST  SHOT 

Sometimes  she  wished  that  Colonel  Lanstron  would 
stay  away  altogether  and  leave  a  free  field  for  a  new 
comer.  Yet  if  two  or  three  weeks  passed  without  a  call 
from  him  she  was  apprehensive.  Besides  being  one  of 
the  Thorbourg  Lanstrons,  he  was  a  most  charming,  cap 
able  man,  who  had  risen  very  rapidly  in  his  profession. 
It  had  been  only  six  months  after  he  had  bolted  up 
from  the  wreck  of  his  plane  by  way  of  self-introduction 
to  Marta  before  he  alighted  in  the  field  across  the  road 
from  the  garden  to  report  a  promise  kept. 

Once  she  knew  that  he  was  a  Lanstron  of  Thorbourg, 
a  fact  of  hardly  passing  interest  to  Marta,  Mrs.  Galland 
made  him  intimately  welcome.  By  the  time  he  had 
paid  his  third  call  he  was  Lanny  to  Marta  and  she  was 
Marta  to  him,  quite  as  if  they  had  known  each  other 
from  childhood.  She  had  a  gift  for  unaffected  comrade 
ship.  He  was  the  kind  of  man  with  whom  she  could  be 
a  comrade.  There  was  always  something  to  say  the 
moment  they  met  and  they  were  never  through  talking 
when  he  had  to  go.  They  disagreed  so  often  that  Mrs. 
Galland  thought  they  made  a  business  of  it.  She 
wondered  how  real  friendship  could  exist  between  two 
such  controversialists.  They  could  be  seriously  disputa 
tious  to  the  point  of  quarrelling;  they  could  be  light- 
heartedly  disputatious  to  the  bantering  point,  where 
either  was  uncertain  which  side  of  the  argument  he  had 
originally  espoused. 

"The  gardener  did  not  cut  the  chrysanthemums," 
Mrs.  Galland  said.  "That  is  why  we  had  asters  in  the 
bowl  at  luncheon.  His  deafness  is  really  a  cross.  I 
never  realized  before  what  a  companion  one  naturally 
makes  of  a  gardener." 

"No,  there's  no  purpose  in  having  a  deaf  gardener," 
said  Marta.  "Nature  distributes  her  defects  unintel- 
ligently.  Now,  if  we  had  dumb  demagogues,  deaf 
gossips,  and  steel  that  when  it  was  being  formed  into  a 
sword-blade  or  a  gun  would  turn  to  putty,  we  should  be 
much  better  off.  But  we  couldn't  let  Feller  go,  could 


THANKS  TO  A  BUMBLEBEE  69 

we?  He's  already  made  himself  a  fixture.  So  few 
people  would  put  up  with  his  deafness!  He's  so  desir 
ous  of  pleasing  and  he  loves  flowers." 

"And  Colonel  Lanstron  recommended  him.  Except 
for  his  deafness  he  is  a  perfect  gardener.  Of  course  he 
had  to  have  some  drawback,  for  complete  perfection  is 
impossible,"  Mrs.  Galland  agreed. 

The  old  straw  hat  that  shaded  the  fringe  of  white 
hair  had  been  hovering  within  easy  approaching  distance 
of  the  chrysanthemum  bed  ever  since  the  whistle  of  the 
train  that  brought  Marta  home  had  been  heard  from 
the  station.  Feller  was  watching  Marta  when  she 
paused  for  a  moment  on  the  second  terrace  steps,  en 
joying  the  sweep  of  landscape  anew  with  the  freshness 
of  a  first  glimpse  and  the  intimacy  of  every  familiar 
detail  cut  in  the  memory.  It  was  her  landscape,  famed 
in  history,  where  history  might  yet  be  made. 

His  greeting  was  picturesque  and  effective.  With 
white  head  bared,  he  looked  up  from  the  chrysanthe 
mums  to  her  and  back  at  them  and  up  at  her  again, 
with  a  sort  of  covert  comradeship  in  his  eyes  which  were 
young,  very  young  for  such  white  hair,  and  held  out  his 
little  pad  and  pencil.  She  smiled  approval  and  slowly 
worked  out  a  "perfect"  in  the  deaf-and-dumb  alphabet 
before  she  took  the  proffered  pencil  and  wrote: 

"I  practised  the  deaf-and-dumb  alphabet  on  the  train. 
I'm  learning  fast.  We've  never  had  such  chrysanthe 
mums  before.  Next  year  we  shall  have  some  irises — 
just  a  few — as  fine  as  they  have  in  Japan.  How's  your 
rheumatism?" 

He  had  replaced  the  broad-brimmed  hat  over  his  brow 
and  his  lips  were  visible  in  a  lingering  smile  as  he  read 
the  message. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Galland,"  he  said  in  his  even  mono 
tone.  "You  are  very  kind  and  I  am  very  fortunate  to 
find  a  place  like  this.  I  already  knew  something  about 
irises  and  I've  been  reading  up  on  the  subject.  We'll 
try  to  hold  our  own  with  those  little  Japanese.  As  for 


70  THE  LAST  SHOT 

the  rheumatism,  since  you  are  good  enough  to  inquire, 
Miss  Galland,  it's  about  the  same.  My  legs  are  getting 
old.  There  are  bound  to  be  some  kinks  in  them." 

"You  select  those  to  cut — a  great  armful!"  she  slowly 
spelled  out  on  her  fingers,  clapping  her  hands  with  a 
triumphant  cry  of  "How's  that?"  at  the  finish. 

"Your  time  has  come!  To  the  sacrifice!"  he  ex 
claimed  to  the  flowers. 

Very  tenderly,  as  if  he  were  an  executioner  considerate 
of  the  victims  of  an  inexorable  law,  he  was  snipping  the 
stems,  his  head  bent  close  to  the  blooms,  when  a  bum 
blebee  appeared  among  the  salvias  a  few  feet  away. 
Perhaps  army  staffs  who  neglect  no  detail  have  made 
a  mistake  in  overlooking  the  whirring  of  bumblebees' 
wings  in  affecting  the  fate  of  nations.  These  plunderers 
are  not  dangerous  from  their  size,  but  they  have  not 
yet  been  organized  to  the  hep-hep-hep  of  partisanship. 
They  would  as  soon  live  in  a  Gray  as  a  Brown  garden, 
as  soon  probe  for  an  atom  of  honey  on  one  side  of  the 
white  posts  as  the  other.  This  one  as  it  drew  nearer 
was  well  to  one  side  over  Feller's  shoulders.  With  eyes 
and  mind  intent  on  his  work,  Feller  turned  his  head  ab 
sently,  as  one  will  at  an  interruption. 

"There  you  are  again,  my  dear!"  he  said.  "You 
must  think  you're  a  battery  of  automatics." 

He  went  on  cutting  chrysanthemums,  apparently  un 
conscious  that  he  had  spoken. 

"Bring  them  up  on  the  veranda,  please,"  Marta 
wrote  on  the  pad,  her  fingers  moving  with  unusual 
nervous  rapidity,  the  only  sign  of  her  inward  excitement. 

Coming  to  the  head  of  the  steps  of  the  terrace  above, 
she  looked  back.  Feller's  face  was  quite  hidden  under 
his  hat  and  suddenly  she  seemed  to  stub  her  toe  and  fall, 
while  she  uttered  a  low  cry  of  pain.  The  hat  rose  like 
a  jack-in-the-box  with  the  cover  released.  Feller 
bounded  toward  her,  taking  two  of  the  steps  at  a  time. 
She  scrambled  to  her  feet  hastily,  laughed,  and  ges 
tured  to  show  that  she  was  not  hurt.  He  drew  his 


THANKS  TO  A  BUMBLEBEE  71 

shoulders  together  and  bent  over  spasmodically,  grip 
ping  his  knee. 

"I  can  run  off  if  something  starts  me  just  as  spry  as 
if  I  were  twenty,"  he  said.  "But  after  I've  done  it  and 
the  kinks  come,  I  realize  I've  got  old  legs." 

"Now  I  know  he's  not  deaf!"  Marta  murmured,  as 
he  returned  to  his  work.  She  frowned.  She  was 
angry.  "Lanny,  you  have  something  to  explain,"  she 
thought. 

But  when  Feller  brought  his  armful  of  chrysanthe 
mums  to  her  on  the  veranda,  there  was  no  trace  in  her 
expression  of  the  discovery  she  had  made,  and  she  wrote 
a  direction  on  his  pad  in  the  usual  fashion. 


IX 
A  SUNDAY  MORNING  CALL 

As  a  boy,  Arthur  Lanstron  had  persisted  in  being  an 
exception  to  the  influences  of  both  heredity  and  environ 
ment.  Though  his  father  and  both  grandfathers  were 
officers  who  believed  theirs  to  be  the  true  gentleman's 
profession,  he  had  preferred  any  kind  of  mechanical  toy 
to  arranging  the  most  gayly  painted  tin  soldiers  in  for 
mation  on  the  nursery  floor;  and  he  would  rather  read 
about  the  wonders  of  natural  history  and  electricity  than 
the  campaigns  of  Napoleon  and  Frederick  the  Great  and 
my  lord  Nelson.  Left  to  his  own  choice,  he  would  miss 
the  parade  of  the  garrison  for  inspection  by  an  excellency 
in  order  to  ask  questions  of  a  man  wiping  the  oil  off  his 
hands  with  cotton-waste,  who  was  far  more  entertain 
ing  to  him  than  the  most  spick-and-span  ramrod  of  a 
sergeant. 

The  first  time  he  saw  a  dynamo  in  motion  he  was 
spellbound.  This  was  even  more  fascinating  than  the 
drill  that  the  family  dentist  worked  with  his  foot.  His 
tutor  found  him  inclined  to  estimate  a  Caesar,  self-char 
acterized  in  his  commentaries,  as  less  humanly  appealing 
than  his  first  love,  the  engine-driver,  with  whom  he  kept 
up  a  correspondence  after  his  father  had  been  trans 
ferred  to  another  post.  He  was  given  to  magic  lanterns, 
private  telegraph  and  telephone  lines,  trying  to  walk  a 
tight  rope,  and  parachute  acts  and  experiments  in  chem 
istry.  When  the  family  were  not  worried  lest  he  should 
break  his  neck  or  blow  his  head  off  investigating,  they 
were  irritated  by  a  certain  plebeian  strain  in  him  which 

72 


A  SUNDAY  MORNING  CALL  73 

kept  all  kinds  of  company.  His  mother  disapproved  of 
his  picking  an  acquaintance  with  a  group  of  acrobats  in 
order  to  improve  his  skill  on  the  trapeze.  His  excuse 
for  his  supple  friends  was  that  they  were  all  " experts" 
in  something,  just  as  his  tutor  was  in  Greek  verbs. 

Very  light-hearted  he  was,  busy,  vital,  reckless,  with 
an  earnest  smile  that  could  win  the  post  telegrapher  to 
teach  him  the  code  alphabet  or  persuade  his  father  not 
to  destroy  his  laboratory  after  he  had  singed  off  his  eye 
brows.  This  may  explain  why  he  had  to  cram  hard  in 
the  dead  languages  at  times,  with  a  towel  tied  around  his 
head.  He  complained  that  they  were  out  of  date;  and 
he  wanted  to  hear  the  Gauls'  story,  too,  before  he  fully 
made  up  his  mind  about  Caesar.  But  for  the  living 
languages  he  had  a  natural  gift  which  his  father's  ser 
vice  abroad  as  military  attache  for  a  while  enabled  him 
to  cultivate. 

Upon  being  told  one  day  that  he  was  to  go  to  the 
military  school  the  following  autumn,  he  broke  out 
in  open  rebellion.  He  had  just  decided,  after  having 
passed  through  the  stages  of  engine-driver,  telegraph 
operator,  railroad-signal  watchman,  automobile  manu 
facturer,  and  superintendent  of  the  city's  waterworks, 
to  build  bridges  over  tropical  torrents  that  always  rose 
in  floods  to  try  all  his  skill  in  saving  his  construction 
work. 

"I  don't  want  to  go  into  the  army!"  he  said. 

"Why?"  asked  his  father,  thinking  that  when  the 
boy  had  to  give  his  reasons  he  would  soon  be  argued  out 
of  the  heresy. 

"It's  drilling  a  few  hours  a  day,  then  nothing  to  do," 
Arthur  replied.  "All  your  work  waits  on  war  and  you 
don't  know  that  there  will  ever  be  any  war.  It  waits 
on  something  nobody  wants  to  happen.  Now,  if  you 
manufacture  something,  why,  you  see  wool  come  out 
cloth,  steel  come  out  an  automobile.  If  you  build  a 
bridge  you  see  it  rising  little  by  little.  You're  getting 
your  results  every  day;  you  see  your  mistakes  and  your 


74  THE  LAST  SHOT 

successes.  You're  making  something,  creating  some 
thing;  there's  something  going  on  all  the  while  that  isn't 
guesswork.  I  think  that's  what  I  want  to  say.  You 
won't  order  me  to  be  a  soldier,  will  you?" 

The  father,  loath  to  do  this,  called  in  the  assistance  of 
an  able  pleader  then,  Eugene  Partow,  lately  become 
chief  of  staff  of  the  Browns,  who  was  an  old  friend  of 
the  Lanstron  family.  It  was  not  in  Partow's  mind  to 
lose  such  a  recruit  in  a  time  when  the  heads  of  the  army 
were  trying,  in  answer  to  the  demands  of  a  new  age,  to 
counteract  the  old  idea  that  made  an  officer's  the  con 
ventional  avocation  of  a  gentleman  of  leisurely  habits. 

"No  army  that  ever  worked  as  hard  in  peace  as  the 
average  manufacturer  or  bridge-builder  was  ever  beaten 
in  battle  if  it  fought  anything  like  equal  numbers,"  he 
said.  "The  officer  who  works  hard  in  the  army  deserves 
more  credit  than  he  would  in  any  other  profession  be 
cause  the  incentive  for  results  seems  remote.  But  what 
a  terrible  test  of  results  may  be  made  in  a  single  hour's 
action.  There  is  nothing  you  have  learned  or  ever 
will  learn  that  may  not  be  of  service  to  you.  There  is 
no  invention,  no  form  of  industrial  organization  that 
must  not  be  included  in  the  greatest  organization  of  all, 
whose  plant  and  methods  must  be  up  to  date  in  every 
particular.  To  be  backward  in  a  single  particular  may 
mean  disaster — may  mean  that  the  loss  of  thousands  of 
lives  is  due  to  you.  You  must  have  self-control,  cour 
age,  dash,  judgment.  If  you  have  not  kept  up,  if  you 
are  not  equal  to  the  test,  your  inefficiency  will  mean 
your  shame  and  your  country's  suffering;  while  effici 
ency  means  a  clear  conscience  and  your  country's  se 
curity." 

Thus  Partow  turned  the  balance  on  the  side  of  filial 
affection.  He  kept  watch  of  the  boy,  but  without 
favoring  him  with  influence.  Young  Lanstron,  who 
wanted  to  see  results,  had  to  earn  them.  He  realized 
in  practice  the  truth  of  Partow's  saying  that  there  was 
nothing  he  had  ever  learned  but  what  could  be  of  service 


A  SUNDAY  MORNING  CALL  75 

to  him  as  an  officer.  What  the  acrobats  had  taught 
him  probably  saved  his  life  on  the  occasion  of  his  first 
flight  across  the  range.  The  friendships  with  all  sorts  of 
people  in  his  youth  were  the  forerunner  of  his  sympathy 
with  the  giant,  wall-eyed  Stransky  who  had  mutinied  on 
the  march. 

"  Finding  enough  work  to  do?"  Par  tow  would  ask 
with  a  chuckle  when  they  met  in  these  days;  for  he 
had  made  Lanstron  both  chief  of  intelligence  and  chief 
aerostatic  officer.  Young  Colonel  Lanstron 's  was  the 
duty  of  gaining  the  secrets  of  the  Gray  staff  and  keeping 
those  of  the  Brown  and  organizing  up-to-the-moment 
efficiency  in  the  new  forces  of  the  air. 

He  had  remarked  truly  enough  that  the  injury  to  his 
left  hand  served  as  a  better  reminder  against  the  folly 
of  wool-gathering  than  a  string,  even  a  large  red  string, 
tied  around  his  finger.  Thanks  to  skilful  surgery  work 
ing  ingeniously  with  splintered  bone  and  pulpy  flesh, 
there  was  nothing  unpleasant  to  the  eye  in  a  stiffened 
wrist  and  scarred  knuckles  slightly  misshapen.  The 
fingers,  incapable  of  spreading  much,  were  yet  service 
able  and  had  a  firm  grip  of  the  wheel  as  he  rose  from  the 
aeroplane  station  on  the  Sunday  morning  after  Marta's 
return  home  for  a  flight  to  La  Tir. 

He  knew  the  pattern  weaving  under  his  feet  as  one 
knows  that  of  his  own  garden  from  an  overlooking 
window.  Every  detail  of  the  staff  map,  ravines,  roads, 
buildings,  battery  positions,  was  stitched  together  in 
the  flowing  reality  of  actual  vision.  No  white  posts 
were  necessary  to  tell  him  where  the  boundary  between 
the  two  nations  lay.  The  line  was  drawn  in  his  brain. 

Nature  was  in  a  gracious  humor,  the  very  tree  tops 
motionless.  The  rich  landscape  in  Sunday  quiet  ap 
pealed  to  his  affections.  He  loved  his  country  and  he 
loved  Marta.  It  had  been  on  such  a  day  as  this  when 
there  would  be  no  danger,  that  he  had  taken  her  for 
her  first  flight.  The  glimpses,  as  they  flew,  of  her  pro 
file,  so  alive  and  tense,  were  fresh  to  his  eye.  How 


76  THE  LAST  SHOT 

serious  she  had  been!  How  vivid  her  impressions! 
How  tempestuous  her  ideas!  He  recalled  their  talk 
upon  their  return;  all  his  questions  and  her  answers. 

"Sublime  and  ridiculous!"  she  had  begun  in  a  sum 
ming  up.  "It  is  like  seeing  the  life  of  a  family  through 
a  glass  roof — the  big,  universal  family!  Valleys  seemed 
no  larger  than  sauce-dishes  on  a  table." 

"What  was  the  sublime  thing?" 

"Man's  toil!  The  cumulative  result  of  it,  on  every 
hand,  in  the  common  aim  for  food,  comfort,  happiness, 
and  progress!  Little  details  of  difference  disappeared. 
Towns,  villages,  houses  were  simply  towns,  villages, 
houses  of  any  country." 

"And  the  supremely  ridiculous  thing?" 

"A  regiment  of  cavalry  of  the  Grays  and  one  of  the 
Browns  on  the  same  road!  They  appeared  so  self- 
important,  as  if  the  sky  would  fall  or  the  earth  heave 
up  to  meet  the  sky  if  they  got  out  of  formation.  I 
imagined  each  man  a  metal  figure  that  fitted  astride 
a  metal  horse  of  the  kind  that  comes  to  children  at 
Christmas  time.  They  might  better  be  engaged  in 
brass-ring-snatching  contests  at  the  merry-go-rounds  of 
public  fairs.  I  wanted  to  brush  them  all  over  with  a 
wave  of  the  hand  as  you  might  the  battalions  of  the  nur 
sery  floor.  Just  drilling  and  drilling  in  order  to  slash 
at  one  another  some  day.  Flight!  flight!  It  makes 
one's  mind  as  big  and  broad  as  the  world.  Oh,  what 
a  wonderful  talk  I'll  have  for  my  kids  next  Sunday!" 

Now  that  Lanstron  was  the  organizer  of  the  aviation 
corps  his  own  flights  were  rare.  Mostly  they  were  made 
to  La  Tir.  His  visits  to  Marta  were  his  holidays.  All 
the  time  that  she  was  absent  on  her  journey  around  the 
world  they  had  corresponded.  Her  letters,  so  reveal 
ing  of  herself  and  her  peculiar  angles  of  observation, 
formed  a  bundle  sacredly  preserved.  Her  mother's  jok 
ing  reference  about  her  girlish  resolution  not  to  marry 


A  SUNDAY  MORNING  CALL  77 

a  soldier  often  recurred  to  him.     There,  he  sometimes 
thought,  was  the  real  obstacle  to  his  great  desire. 

He  wished,  this  morning,  that  he  were  not  Colonel 
Lanstron,  but  the  bridge-builder  returning  from  his 
triumph  after  he  had  at  last  spanned  the  chasm  and 
controlled  the  floods.  Ah,  there  was  something  like 
romance  and  real  accomplishment  in  that!  What  an 
easy  time  a  bridge-builder  had,  comparatively,  tool 
What  an  easy  master  capital  must  be  compared  to  Eugene 
Partow!  But  no!  If  Marta  loved  it  would  not  matter 
whether  he  were  bridge  builder  or  army  builder.  Yes, 
she  was  like  that.  And  what  right  had  he  to  think  of 
marriage?  He  could  not  have  any  home.  He  was  now 
in  the  capital;  again,  along  the  frontier — a  vagabond  of 
duty  and  Partow's  orders. 

When  he  alighted  from  the  plane  he  thrust  his  left 
hand  into  his  blouse  pocket.  He  always  carried  it  there, 
as  if  it  were  literally  sewn  in  place.  In  moments  of 
emotion  the  scarred  nerves  would  twitch  as  the  telltale 
of  his  sensitiveness;  and  this  was  something  he  would 
conceal  from  others  no  matter  how  conscious  he  was  of 
it  himself.  He  found  the  Galland  veranda  deserted. 
In  response  to  his  ring  a  maid  came  to  the  open  door. 
Her  face  was  sad,  with  a  beauty  that  had  prematurely 
faded.  But  it  lighted  pleasurably  in  recognition.  Her 
hair  was  thick  and  tawny,  lying  low  over  the  brow;  her 
eyes  were  a  softly  luminous  brown  and  her  full  lips 
sensitive  and  yielding.  Lanstron,  an  intimate  of  the 
Galland  household,  knew  her  story  well  and  the  part  that 
Marta  had  played  in  it. 

Some  four  years  previously,  when  a  baby  was  in 
prospect  for  Minna,  who  wore  no  wedding-ring,  Mrs. 
Galland  had  been  inclined  to  send  the  maid  to  an  in 
stitution,  "  where  they  will  take  good  care  of  her,  my 
dear.  That's  what  such  institutions  are  for.  It  is  quite 
scandalous  for  her  and  for  us — never  happened  in  our 
family  before!" 


78  THE  LAST  SHOT 

Marta  arched  her  eyebrows. 

"We  don't  know!"  she  exclaimed  softly. 

"How  can  you  think  such  a  thing,  let  alone  saying  it 
—you,  a  Galland!"  her  mother  gasped  in  indignation. 

"That  is,  if  we  go  far  back,"  said  Marta.  "At  all 
events,  we  have  no  precedent,  so  let's  establish  one  by 
keeping  her." 

"But  for  her  own  sake!  She  will  have  to  live  with 
her  shame!"  Mrs.  Galland  objected.  "Let  her  begin 
afresh  in  the  city.  We  shall  give  her  a  good  recommen 
dation,  for  she  is  really  an  excellent  servant.  Yes,  she 
will  readily  find  a  place  among  strangers." 

"Still,  she  doesn't  want  to  go,  and  it  would  be  cruel  to 
send  her  away." 

" Cruel!  Why,  Marta,  do  you  think  I  would  be  cruel? 
Oh,  very  well,  then  we  will  let  her  stay!" 

"Both  are  away  at  church.  Mrs.  Galland  ought  to 
be  here  any  minute,  but  Miss  Galland  will  be  later  be 
cause  of  her  children's  class,"  said  Minna.  "Will  you 
wait  on  the  veranda?" 

He  was  saying  that  he  would  stroll  in  the  garden  when 
childish  footsteps  were  heard  in  the  hall,  and  after  a 
curly  head  had  nestled  against  the  mother's  skirts  its 
owner,  reminded  of  the  importance  of  manners  in  the 
world  where  the  stork  had  left  her,  made  a  curtsey. 
Lanstron  shook  a  small  hand  which  must  have  lately 
been  on  intimate  terms  with  sugar  or  jam. 

"How  do  you  do,  flying  soldier  man?"  chirruped 
Clarissa  Eileen.  It  was  evident  that  she  held  Lanstron 
in  high  favor. 

"Let  me  hear  you  say  your  name,"  said  Lanstron. 

Clarissa  Eileen  was  triumphant.  She  had  been  wait 
ing  for  days  with  the  revelation  when  he  should  make 
that  old  request.  Now  she  enunciated  it  with  every 
vowel  and  consonant  correctly  and  primly  uttered;  in 
deed,  she  repeated  it  four  or  five  times  in  proof  of  com 
plete  mastery. 


A  SUNDAY  MORNING  CALL  79 

"A  pretty  name.  I've  often  wondered  how  you  came 
to  give  it  to  her,"  said  Lanstron  to  Minna. 

"You  do  like  it!"  exclaimed  Minna  with  girlish  eager 
ness.  "I  gave  her  the  most  beautiful  name  I  could  think 
of  because" — she  laid  her  hand  caressingly  on  the  child's 
head  and  a  madonna-like  radiance  stole  into  her  face — 
"because  she  might  at  least  have  a  beautiful  name 
when" — the  dull  blaze  of  a  recollection  now  burning  in 
her  eyes — "when  there  wasn't  much  prospect  of  many 
beautiful  things  coming  into  her  life;  though  I  know,  of 
course,  that  the  world  thinks  she  ought  to  be  called 
Maggie." 

Proceeding  leisurely  along  the  main  path  of  the  first 
terrace,  Lanstron  followed  it  past  the  rear  of  the  house 
to  the  old  tower.  Long  ago  the  moat  that  surrounded 
the  castle  had  been  filled  in.  The  green  of  rows  of 
grape-vines  lay  against  the  background  of  a  mat  of  ivy 
on  the  ancient  stone  walls,  which  had  been  cut  away 
from  the  loopholes  set  with  window-glass.  The  door  was 
open,  showing  a  room  that  had  been  closed  in  by  a 
ceiling  of  boards  from  the  walls  to  the  circular  stairway 
that  ran  aloft  from  the  dungeons.  On  the  floor  of  flags 
were  cheap  rugs.  A  number  of  seed  and  nursery  cata 
logues  were  piled  on  a  round  table  covered  with  a  brown 
cloth. 

"Hello!"  Lanstron  called  softly.  "Hello!"  he  called 
louder  and  yet  louder. 

Receiving  no  answer,  he  retraced  his  steps  and  seated 
himself  on  the  second  terrace  in  a  secluded  spot  in  the 
shadow  of  the  first  terrace  wall,  where  he  could  see  any 
one  coming  up  the  main  flight  of  steps  from  the  road. 
When  Marta  walked  she  usually  came  from  town  by 
that  way.  At  length  the  sound  of  a  slow  step  from 
another  direction  broke  on  his  ear.  Some  one  was  ap 
proaching  along  the  path  that  ran  at  his  feet.  Around 
the  corner  of  the  wall,  in  his  workman's  Sunday  clothes 
of  black,  but  still  wearing  his  old  straw  hat,  appeared 


8o  THE  LAST  SHOT 

Feller,  the  gardener.  He  paused  to  examine  a  rose-bush 
and  Lanstron  regarded  him  thoughtfully  and  sadly:  his 
white  hair,  his  stoop,  his  graceful  hands,  their  narrow 
finger-tips  turning  over  the  leaves. 

As  he  turned  away  he  looked  up,  and  a  glance  of 
definite  and  unfaltering  recognition  was  exchanged  be 
tween  the  two  men.  Feller's  hat  was  promptly  low 
ered  enough  to  form  a  barrier  between  their  eyes.  His 
face  was  singularly  expressionless.  It  seemed  withered, 
clayish,  like  the  walls  of  a  furnace  in  which  the  fire  has 
died  out.  After  a  few  steps  he  paused  before  another 
rose-bush.  Meanwhile,  both  had  swept  the  surround 
ings  in  a  sharp,  covert  survey.  They  had  the  garden  to 
themselves. 

"Gustave!"  Lanstron  exclaimed  under  his  breath. 

"Lanny!"  exclaimed  the  gardener,  turning  over  a 
branch  of  the  rose-bush.  He  seemed  unwilling  to  risk 
talking  openly  with  Lanstron. 

"You  look  the  good  workman  in  his  Sunday  best  to 
a  T!"  said  Lanstron. 

"Being  stone-deaf,"  returned  Feller,  with  a  trace  of 
drollery  in  his  voice,  "I  hear  very  well — at  times.  Tell 
me" — his  whisper  was  quivering  with  eagerness — "shall 
we  fight?  Shall  we  fight?" 

"We  are  nearer  to  it  than  we  have  ever  been  in  our 
time,"  Lanstron  replied. 

The  hat  still  shaded  Feller's  face,  his  stoop  was  un 
changed,  but  the  branch  in  his  hand  shook. 

"Honest?"  he  exclaimed.  "Oh,  the  chance  of  it!  the 
chance  of  it!" 

"Gustave!"  Lanstron's  voice,  still  low,  came  in  a 
gust  of-  sympathy,  and  the  pocket  which  concealed  his 
hand  gave  a  nervous  twitch  as  if  it  held  something  alive 
and  distinct  from  his  own  being.  "The  trial  wears  on 
you!  You  feel  you  must  break  out?" 

"No,  I'm  game— game,  I  tell  you!"  Still  Feller 
spoke  to  the  branch,  which  was  steady  now  in  a  firm 
hand.  "No,  I  don't  grow  weary  of  the  garden  and  the 


A  SUNDAY  MORNING  CALL  81 

isolation  as  long  as  there  is  hope.  But  being  deaf,  al 
ways  deaf,  and  yet  hearing  everything!  Always  stooped, 
even  when  the  bugles  are  sounding  to  the  artillery  gar 
rison — that  is  somewhat  tiresome!" 

"The  idea  of  being  deaf  was  yours,  you  know,  Gus- 
tave,"  said  Lanstron. 

"Yes,  and  the  right  plan.  It  was  fun  at  first  going 
through  the  streets  and  hearing  people  say,  'He's  deaf 
as  a  stone!'  and  having  everybody  work  their  lips  at 
me  while  I  pretended  to  study  them  in  a  dumb  effort 
to  understand.  Actors  have  two  hours  of  it  an  evening, 
and  an  occasional  change  of  parts,  but  I  act  one  part  all 
the  time.  I  get  as  taciturn  as  a  clam.  If  war  doesn't 
come  pretty  soon  I  shall  be  ready  for  a  monastery  of 
perpetual  silence." 

"Confound  it,  Gustave!"  exclaimed  Lanstron.  "It's 
inhuman,  old  boy!  You  shan't  stay  another  day!" 
Discretion  to  the  winds,  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

An  impulse  of  the  same  sort  overwhelmed  Feller. 
His  hand  let  go  of  the  branch.  The  brim  of  the  hat 
shot  up,  revealing  a  face  that  was  not  old,  but  in  mer 
curial  quickness  of  expressive,  uncontrollable  emotion 
was  young,  handsomely  and  attractively  young  in  its 
frame  of  prematurely  white  hair.  The  stoop  was  wholly 
gone.  He  was  tall  now,  his  eyes  sparkling  with  wild, 
happy  lights  and  the  soles  of  the  heavy  workman's 
shoes  unconsciously  drawn  together  in  a  military  stance. 
Lanstron's  twitching  hand  flew  from  his  pocket  and 
with  the  other  found  Feller's  hand  in  a  strong,  warm, 
double  grip.  For  a  second's  silence  they  remained  thus. 
Feller  was  the  first  to  recover  himself  and  utter  a  warning. 

"Miss  Galland — Minna — some  one  might  be  looking." 

He  drew  away  abruptly,  his  face  becoming  suddenly 
old,  his  stoop  returning,  and  began  to  study  the  branch 
as  before.  Lanstron  dropped  back  to  his  seat  and  gazed 
at  the  brown  roofs  of  the  town.  Thus  they  might  con 
tinue  their  conversation  as  guest  and  gardener. 

"I  didn't  think  you'd  stick  it  out,  but  you  wanted  to 


82  THE  LAST  SHOT 

try — you  chose,"  said  Lanstron.  "Come — this  after 
noon — now!" 

"This  is  best  for  me — this  to  the  end  of  the  chapter!" 
Feller  replied  doggedly.  "Because  you  say  you  didn't 
think  I'd  stick  it  out — ah,  how  well  you  know  me, 
Lanny! — is  the  one  reason  that  I  should." 

"True!"  Lanstron  agreed.  "A  victory  over  your 
self!" 

"How  often  I  have  heard  in  imagination  the  outbreak 
of  rifle-fire  down  there  by  the  white  posts!  How  often 
I  have  longed  for  that  day — for  war!  I  live  for  war!" 

"It  may  never  come,"  Lanstron  said  in  frank  pro 
test.  "And,  for  God's  sake,  don't  pray  for  it  in  that 
way!" 

"Then  I  shall  be  patient — patient  under  all  irritations. 
The  worst  is,"  and  Feller  raised  his  head  heavily,  in  a 
way  that  seemed  to  emphasize  both  his  stoop  and  his 
age,  "the  worst  is  Miss  Galland." 

"Miss  Galland!    How?" 

"She  is  learning  the  deaf-and-dumb  alphabet  in  order 
the  better  to  communicate  with  me.  She  likes  to  talk 
of  the  flowers — gardening  is  a  passion  with  her,  too— 
and  all  the  while,  in  face  of  the  honesty  of  those  big 
eyes  of  hers  and  of  her  gentle  old  mother's  confidence,  I 
am  living  a  lie!  Oh,  the  satire  of  it!  And  I  have  not 
been  used  to  lying.  That  is  my  only  virtue;  at  any 
rate,  I  was  never  a  liar!" 

"Then,  why  stay,  Gustave?  I  will  find  something 
else  for  you." 

"No!"  Feller  shot  back  irritably.  "No!"  he  repeated 
resolutely.  "I  don't  want  to  go!  I  mean  to  be  game 
—I—  He  shifted  his  gaze  dismally  from  the  bush 
which  he  still  pretended  to  examine  and  suddenly  broke 
off  with:  "Miss  Galland  is  coming!" 

He  started  to  move  away  with  a  gardener's  shuffling 
steps,  looking  from  right  to  left  for  weeds.  Then  paus 
ing,  he  glanced  back,  his  face  in  another  transformation 
— that  of  a  comedian. 


A  SUNDAY  MORNING  CALL  83 

"La,  la,  la! "  he  clucked,  tossing  his  head  gayly.  "De 
pend  on  me,  Lanny!  They'll  never  know  I'm  not  deaf. 
I  get  my  blue  fits  only  on  Sundays!  And  deafness  has 
its  compensations.  Think  if  I  had  to  listen  to  all  the 
stories  of  my  table  companion,  Peter,  the  coachman! 
La,  la,  la!"  he  clucked  again,  before  disappearing  around 
a  bend  in  the  path.  "La,  la,  la!  I'm  the  man  for  this 
part!" 

Lanstron  started  toward  the  steps  that  Marta  was 
ascending.  She  moved  leisurely,  yet  with  a  certain 
springy  energy  that  suggested  that  she  might  have 
come  on  the  run  without  being  out  of  breath  or  seeming 
to  have  made  an  effort.  Without  seeing  him,  she  paused 
before  one  of  the  urns  of  hydrangeas  in  full  bloom  that 
flanked  the  third  terrace  wall,  and,  as  if  she  would 
encompass  and  plunge  her  spirit  into  their  abundant 
beauty,  she  spread  out  her  arms  and  drew  the  blossoms 
together  in  a  mass  in  which  she  half  buried  her  face.  The 
act  was  delightful  in  its  grace  and  spontaneity.  It  was 
like  having  a  page  out  of  her  secret  self.  It  brought 
the  glow  of  his  great  desire  into  Lanstron's  eyes. 

"Hello,  stranger!"  she  called  as  she  saw  him,  and 
quickened  her  pace. 

"Hello,  pedagogue!"  he  responded. 

As  they  shook  hands  they  swung  their  arms  back  and 
forth  like  a  pair  of  romping  children  for  a  moment. 

"We  had  a  grand  session  of  the  school  this  morning, 
the  largest  class  ever!"  she  said.  "And  the  points  we 
scored  off  you  soldiers!  You'll  find  disarmament  al 
ready  in  progress  when  you  return  to  headquarters. 
We're  irresistible,  or  at  least,"  she  added,  with  a  flash 
of  intensity,  "we're  going  to  be  some  day." 

"So  you  put  on  your  war-paint!" 

"It  must  be  the  pollen  from  the  hydrangeas!"  She 
flicked  her  handkerchief  from  her  belt  and  passed  it  to 
him.  "Show  that  you  know  how  to  be  useful!" 

He  performed  the  task  with  deliberate  care. 

"Heavens!    You  even  have  some  on  your  ear  and 


84  THE  LAST  SHOT 

some  on  your  hair;  but  I'll  leave  it  on  your  hair;  it's 
rather  becoming.  There  you  are!"  he  concluded. 

"Off  my  hair,  too!" 

1  'Very  well.    I  always  obey  orders." 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  asked  you  to  do  it  at  all!"  she 
exclaimed  with  a  sudden  change  of  manner  as  they 
started  up  to  the  house.  "But  a  habit  of  friendship,  a 
habit  of  liking  to  believe  in  one's  friends,  was  uppermost. 
I  forgot.  I  oughtn't  even  to  have  shaken  hands  with 
you!" 

"Marta!    What  now,  Marta?"  he  asked. 

He  had  known  her  in  reproach,  in  anger,  in  laughing 
mockery,  in  militant  seriousness,  but  never  before  like 
this.  The  pain  and  indignation  in  her  eyes  came  not 
from  the  sheer  hurt  of  a  wound  but  from  the  hurt  of  its 
source.  It  was  as  if  he  had  learned  by  the  signal  of  its 
loss  that  he  had  a  deeper  hold  on  her  than  he  had  real 
ized. 

"Yes,  I  have  a  bone  to  pick  with  you,"  she  said,  re 
covering  a  grim  sort  of  fellowship.  "A  big  bone!  If 
you're  half  a  friend  you'll  give  me  the  very  marrow 
of  it." 

"I  am  ready!"  he  answered  more  pathetically  than 
philosophically. 

"There's  not  time  now;  after  luncheon,  when  mother 
is  taking  her  nap,"  she  concluded  as  they  came  to  the 
last  step  and  saw  Mrs.  Galland  on  the  veranda. 


X 

A  LUNCHEON  AT  THE  GALLANDS' 

SEATED  at  the  head  of  the  table  at  luncheon,  Mrs. 
Galland,  with  her  round  cheeks,  her  rather  becoming 
double  chin,  and  her  nicely  dressed  hair,  almost  snow- 
white  now,  suggested  a  girlhood  in  the  Bulwer  Lytton 
and  Octave  Feuillet  age,  when  darkened  rooms  were 
favored  for  the  complexion  and  it  was  the  fashion  for 
gentlewomen  to  faint  on  occasion.  She  lived  in  the  past; 
the  present  interested  her  only  when  it  aroused  some 
memory.  To-day  all  her  memories  were  of  the  war  of 
forty  years  ago. 

"I  remember  how  Mrs.  Karly  collapsed  when  they 
brought  word  of  the  death  of  her  son,  and  never  re 
covered  her  mind.  And  I  remember  Eunice  Steiner  when 
they  brought  Charles  home  looking  so  white — and  it  was 
the  very  day  set  for  their  wedding!  And  I  remember 
all  the  wounded  gathered  at  the  foot  of  the  terrace  and 
being  carried  in  here,  while  the  guns  were  roaring  out  on 
the  plain — and  now  it's  all  coming  again!" 

"Why,  mother,  you're  very  blue  to-day!"  said  Marta. 

"We  have  had  these  crises  before.  We — "  Lanstron 
began,  rallying  her, 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have  reason  and  argument,"  she  parried 
gently.  "I  have  only  my  feelings.  But  it's  in  the  air 
— yes.  war  is  in  the  air,  as  it  was  that  other  time.  And 
I  remember  that  young  private,  only  a  boy,  who  lay 
crumpled  up  on  the  steps  where  he  fell.  I  bandaged 
him  myself  and  helped  to  make  his  position  easier.  Yes, 
I  almost  lifted  him  in  my  arms."  She  was  looking  at 
the  flowers  on  the  table  but  not  seeing  them.  She  was 
seeing  the  face  of  the  young  private  forty  years  ago. 

85 


86  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"He  asked  me  to  bring  him  a  rose.  He  said  the  smell 
of  roses  was  so  sweet  and  he  felt  so  faint.  I  brought 
him  the  rose — and  he  was  dead!" 

"Yes,  yes!"  Marta  breathed.  She,  too,  in  her  quick 
imagination,  was  seeing  the  young  private  and  spatters 
of  blood  on  the  terrace.  Lanstron  feasted  his  eyes  on 
her  face,  which  mirrored  her  emotion. 

"Oh,  the  groans  of  the  dying  in  the  night  and  the 
cheering  when  the  news  of  victory  came  in!"  Mrs.  Gal- 
land  continued.  "I  could  not  cheer.  But  that  was 
long,  long  ago — long  ago,  and  yet  only  yesterday !  And 
now  we  are  to  have  it  all  over  again.  The  young  men 
must  have  their  turn.  They  will  not  be  satisfied  by  the 
experience  of  their,  fathers.  Yes,  all  over  again;  still 
more  horrible— and  it  was  horrible  enough  then !  I  used 
to  get  giddy  easily.  I  do  yet.  But  I  didn't  faint — no, 
not  once  through  the  days  of  nursing,  the  weeks  of 
suspense.  I  wondered  afterward  how  I  could  have  en 
dured  so  much." 

"Are  we  of  the  septicized-serum  age  equal  to  it?" 
Marta  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  we  of  the  matter-of-fact,  automatic  gun-recoil 
age!"  put  in  Lanstron. 

"Oh,  mother,"  Marta  went  on,  "I  wish  you  would  go 
with  me  to  the  class  some  morning,  you  who  have  seen 
and  felt  war,  and  tell  it  all  as  you  saw  it  to  the  children!" 

"But,"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Galland,  "I'm  an  old- 
fashioned  woman;  and,  Marta,  your  father  was  an 
officer,  as  your  grandfather  was,  too.  I  am  sure  he 
would  not  approve  of  your  school,  and  I  could  do  noth 
ing  against  his  wishes." 

She  looked  up  with  moistening  eyes  to  a  portrait  on 
the  opposite  wall  over  the  seat  which  her  husband  had 
occupied  at  table.  Lanstron  saw  there  a  florid,  jaunty 
gentleman  in  riding-habit,  gloves  on  knee,  crop  in  hand. 
The  spirit  of  the  first  Galland  or  of  the  stern  grandfather 
on  the  side  wall — with  Bliicher  tufts  in  front  of  his  ears 
in  sturdy  defiance  of  that  parvenu  Bonaparte  and  of  his 


A  LUNCHEON  AT  THE  GALLANDS'       87 

own  younger  brother  who  had  fallen  fighting  for  Bona 
parte — would  have  frowned  on  the  descendant  who  had 
filled  the  house  with  merry  guests  and  paid  the  bills 
with  mortgages  in  the  ebbing  tide  of  the  family  fortunes. 
But  Mrs.  Galland  saw  only  a  hero.  She  shared  his 
prejudices  against  the  manufacturers  of  the  town;  she 
saw  the  sale  of  land  to  be  cut  up  into  dwelling  sites,  which 
had  saved  the  Gallands  from  bankruptcy,  as  the  work 
ing  of  the  adverse  fate  of  modern  tendencies.  Even  as 
she  had  left  all  details  of  business  to  her  husband,  so  she 
had  of  late  left  them  to  Marta's  managing. 

"  Edward  and  I  were  just  engaged  before  the  outbreak 
of  the  war,"  she  proceeded.  "How  handsome  he  was  in 
his  Hussars'  uniform!  How  frightened  I  was  and  how 
proud  of  his  fine  bravado  when  I  heard  him  and  a  number 
of  fellow  officers  drinking  here  in  this  room  to  quick 
death  and  speedy  promotion!  Do  they  still  have  that 
toast,  Colonel?" 

"Yes,  in  some  regiments,"  Lanstron  answered.  He 
would  not  say  that  what  was  good  form  in  the  days  of 
the  beau  sabreur  was  considered  a  little  theatrical  in  the 
days  of  the  automatic  gun-recoil. 

"And  when  he  came — oh,  when  you  came  home," 
breathed  Mrs.  Galland  to  the  portrait,  "with  the  scar 
on  your  cheek,  how  tanned  and  strong  your  hands  were 
and  how  white  mine  as  you  held  them  so  fast!  And 
then" — she  smiled  in  peaceful  content — "then  I  did 
faint.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  it — I  did!" 

"Without  any  danger  of  falling  far!"  said  Lanstron 
happily. 

"Or  with  much  of  a  jar!"  added  Marta. 

"You  prattling  children!"  gasped  Mrs.  Galland,  her 
cheeks  flushing.  "Do  you  think  that  I  fainted  pur 
posely?  I  would  have  been  ashamed  to  my  dying  day 
if  I  had  feigned  it!" 

"And  you  did  not  faint  in  the  presence  of  the  dead 
and  dying!"  said  Marta  thoughtfully,  wonderingly,  lean 
ing  nearer  to  her  mother,  her  eyes  athirst  and  drinking. 


88  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"But  I  believe  it  is  only  a  wispy-waspy  sort  of  girl 
that  faints  at  all  these  days.  They're  all  so  business 
like,"  said  Mrs.  Galland— "so  businesslike  that  they  are 
ceasing  to  marry." 

How  many  girls  she  had  known  to  wait  a  little  too 
long!  If  anything  could  awaken  Marta  to  action  it 
ought  to  be  war,  which  was  a  great  match-maker  forty 
years  ago.  The  thought  of  a  lover  in  danger  had  pre 
cipitated  wavering  hearts  into  engagements.  Marta's 
mood  was  such  that  she  received  the  hint  openly  and 
playfully  to-day. 

"Oh,  I  don't  despair!"  she  exclaimed,  straightening 
her  shoulders  and  drawing  in  her  chin  with  a  mock  dis 
play  of  bravery.  "I  believe  it  was  in  an  English  novel 
that  I  read  that  any  woman  without  a  hump  can  get  any 
man  she  sets  out  for.  It  is  a  matter  of  determination 
and  concentration  and  a  wise  choice  of  vulnerable  ob 
jects." 

"Marta,  Marta!"  gasped  Mrs.  Galland.  In  her  ton.e 
was  a  volume  of  lamentation. 

"Now  that  I'm  twenty-seven  mother  is  ready  to  take 
any  risk  on  my  behalf,  if  it  is  masculine.  By  the  time 
I'm  thirty  she  will  be  ready  to  give  me  to  a  peddler  with 
a  harelip!"  she  said  mischievously. 

"A  peddler  with  a  harelip!  Marta,  will  you  never  be 
serious?" 

"Some  day,  mother,"  Marta  went  on,  "when  we  find 
the  right  man,  you  hold  him  while  I  propose,  and  to 
gether  we'll  surely— 

Mrs.  Galland  could  not  resist  laughing,  which  was  one 
way  to  stop  further  absurdities — absurdities  concealing 
a  nervous  strain  they  happened  to  be  this  time — while 
Colonel  Lanstron  was  a  little  flushed  and  ill  at  ease. 
She  had  a  truly  silvery  laugh — the  kind  no  longer  in 
fashion  among~the  gentry  since  golden  laughs  came  in,— 
that  went  well  with  the  dimples  dipping  into  her  pink 
cheeks. 

Contrary  to  custom,  she  did  not  excuse  herself  im- 


A  LUNCHEON  AT  THE  GALLANDS'       89 

mediately  after  luncheon  for  her  afternoon  nap,  but  kept 
battling  with  her  nods  until  nature  was  victorious  and 
she  fell  fast  asleep.  Marta,  grown  restless  with  im 
patience,  suggested  to  Lanstron  that  they  stroll  in  the 
garden,  and  they  took  the  path  past  the  house  toward 
the  castle  tower,  stopping  in  an  arbor  with  high  hedges 
on  either  side  around  a  statue  of  Mercury. 

"Now!"  exclaimed  Marta  narrowly.  "It  was  you, 
Lanny,  who  recommended  Feller  to  us  as  a  gardener, 
competent  though  deaf!"  With  literal  brevity  she 
told  how  she  had  proved  him  to  be  a  man  of  most  sen 
sitive  hearing.  "I  didn't  let  him  know  that  he  was  dis 
covered.  I  felt  too  much  pity  for  him  to  do  that.  You 
brought  him  here — you,  Lanny,  you  are  the  one  to  ex 
plain." 

"True,  he  is  not  deaf!"  Lanstron  replied. 

"You  knew  he  was  not  deaf,  while  we  wrote  our  mes 
sages  to  him  and  I  have  been  learning  the  deaf-and-dumb 
alphabet!  It  was  pretty  fun,  wasn't  it?" 

"Not  fun — no,  Marta!"  he  parried. 

"He  is  a  spy?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  a  spy.  You  can  put  things  in  a  bright  light, 
Marta!"  He  found  words  coming  with  difficulty  in  face 
of  the  pain  and  disillusion  of  her  set  look. 

"Using  some  broken  man  as  a  pawn;  setting  him  as  a 
spy  in  the  garden  where  you  have  been  the  welcome 
friend!"  she  exclaimed.  "A  spy  on  what — on  my 
mother,  on  Minna,  on  me,  on  the  flowers,  as  a  part  of 
this  monstrous  game  of  trickery  and  lies  that  you  are 
playing?" 

There  was  no  trace  of  anger  in  her  tone.  It  was  that 
of  one  mortally  hurt.  Anger  would  have  been  easier 
to  bear  than  the  measuring,  penetrating  wonder  that 
found  him  guilty  of  such  a  horrible  part.  Those  eyes 
would  have  confused  Partow  himself  with  the  steady, 
welling  intensity  of  their  gaze.  She  did  not  see  how  his 
left  hand  was  twitching  and  how  he  stilled  its  movement 
by  pressing  it  against  the  bench. 


go  THE  LAST   SHOT 

"You  will  take  Feller  with  you  when  you  go!"  she 
said,  rising. 

Lanstron  dropped  his  head  in  a  kind  of  shaking  throb 
of  his  whole  body  and  raised  a  face  white  with  appeal. 

"Marta!"  He  was  speaking  to  a  profile,  very  sen 
sitive  and  yet  like  ivory.  "I've  no  excuse  for  such  an 
abuse  of  hospitality  except  the  obesssion  of  a  loathsome 
work  that  some  man  must  do  and  I  was  set  to  do.  My 
God,  Marta!  I  cease  to  be  natural  and  human.  I  am 
a  machine.  I  keep  thinking,  what  if  war  comes  and 
some  error  of  mine  let  the  enemy  know  where  to  strike 
the  blow  of  victory;  or  if  there  were  information  I  might 
have  gained  and  failed  to  gain  that  would  have  given  us 
the  victory — if,  because  I  had  not  done  my  part,  thou 
sands  of  lives  of  our  soldiers  were  sacrificed  needlessly!" 

At  that  she  turned  on  him  quickly,  her  face  softening. 

"You  do  think  of  that— the  lives?" 

"Yes,  why  shouldn't  I?" 

"Of  those  on  your  side!"  she  exclaimed,  turning  away. 

"Yes,  of  those  first,"  he  replied.  "And,  Marta,  I  did 
not  tell  you  why  Feller  was  here  because  he  did  not  want 
me  to,  and  I  was  curious  to  see  if  he  had  sustained  power 
enough  to  keep  you  from  discovering  his  simulation. 
I  did  not  think  he  would  remain.  I  thought  that  in  a 
week  he  would  tire  of  the  part.  But  now  you  must  have 
the  whole  story.  You  will  listen?" 

"I  should  not  be  fair  if  I  did  not,  should  I?"  she  re 
plied,  with  a  weary  shadow  of  a  smile. 


XI 
MARTA  HEARS  FELLER'S  STORY 

To  tell  the  story  as  Lanstron  told  it  is  to  have  it  from 
the  partisan  lips  of  a  man  speaking  for  a  man  out  of  the 
depths  of  a  friendship  grown  into  the  fibre  of  youth. 
It  is  better  written  by  the  detached  narrator. 

Gustave  Feller's  father  had  died  when  Gustave  was 
twelve  and  his  mother  found  it  easy  to  spoil  an  only  son 
who  was  handsome  and  popular.  He  suffered  the  mis 
fortune  of  a  mental  brilliancy  that  learns  too  readily 
and  of  a  personal  charm  that  wins  its  way  too  easily. 
He  danced  well;  he  was  facile  at  the  piano;  and  he  had 
so  pronounced  a  gift  as  an  amateur  actor  that  a  cele 
brated  professional  had  advised  him  to  go  on  the  stage. 

The  two  entering  the  cadet  officers'  school  at  the  same 
time,  chance  made  them  roommates  and  choice  soon 
made  them  chums.  They  had  in  common  cleverness 
and  the  abundant  energy  that  must  continually  express 
itself  in  action,  and  a  mutual  attraction  in  the  very 
complexity  of  dissimilar  traits  that  wove  well  in  com 
panionship. 

While  they  were  together  Lanstron  was  a  brake  on 
his  friend's  impulses  of  frivolity  which  carried  him  to 
extremes;  but  they  separated  after  receiving  their  com 
missions,  Feller  being  assigned  to  the  horse-artillery  and 
Lanstron  to  the  infantry  and  later  to  the  staff.  In 
charge  of  a  field-battery  at  manoeuvres  Feller  was  at 
his  best.  But  in  the  comparative  idleness  of  his  pro 
fession  he  had  much  spare  time  for  amusement,  which 
led  to  gambling.  Soon  many  debts  hung  over  his 
head,  awaiting  liquidation  at  high  rates  of  interest  when 
he  should  come  into  the  family  property. 

91 


92  THE  LAST  SHOT 

To  the  last  his  mother,  having  ever  in  mind  a  picture 
of  him  as  a  fine  figure  riding  at  the  head  of  his  guns,  was 
kept  in  ignorance  of  this  side  of  his  life.  With  her  death, 
when  he  had  just  turned  thirty,  a  fortune  was  at  his  dis 
posal.  He  made  an  oath  of  his  resolution  to  pay  his 
debts,  marry  and  settle  down  and  maintain  his  inheri 
tance  unimpaired.  This  endured  for  a  year  before  it 
began  to  waver;  and  the  wavering  was  soon  followed  by 
headlong  obsession  which  fed  on  itself.  As  his  passion 
for  gambling  grew  it  seemed  to  consume  the  better 
elements  of  his  nature.  Lanstron  reasoned  with  him, 
then  implored,  then  stormed;  and  Feller,  regularly 
promising  to  reform,  regularly  fell  each  time  into  greater 
excesses.  Twice  Lanstron  saved  him  from  court-martial, 
but  the  third  time  no  intercession  or  influence  would  in 
duce  his  superiors  to  overlook  the  offence.  Feller  was 
permitted  to  resign  to  avoid  a  scandal,  and  at  thirty- 
three,  penniless,  disgraced,  he  faced  the  world  and  sought 
the  new  land  which  has  been  the  refuge  for  numbers 
of  his  kind.  Only  one  friend  bade  him  farewell  as  he 
boarded  a  steamer  for  New  York,  and  this  was  Lanstron. 

"Keep  away  from  cities!  Seek  the  open  country! 
And  write  me,  Gustave — don't  fail!"  said  Lanstron. 

Letters  full  of  hope  came  from  a  Wyoming  ranch; 
letters  that  told  how  Feller  had  learned  to  rope  a  steer 
and  had  won  favor  with  his  fellows  and  the  ranch  boss; 
of  a  one-time  gourmet's  healthy  appetite  for  the  fare  of 
the  chuck  wagon.  Lanstron,  reading  more  between  the 
lines  than  in  them,  understood  that  as  muscles  hardened 
with  the  new  life  the  old  passion  was  dying  and  in  its 
place  was  coming  something  equally  dangerous  as  a 
possible  force  in  driving  his  ardent  nature  to  some  ex 
cess  for  the  sake  of  oblivion.  Finally,  Feller  broke  out 
with  the  truth. 

"My  hair  is  white  now,  Lanny,"  he  wrote.  "I  have 
aged  ten  years  in  these  two.  With  every  month  of  this 
new  life  the  horror  of  my  career  has  become  clear  to  me. 
I  lie  awake  thinking  of  it.  I  feel  unworthy  to  associ- 


MARTA  HEARS  FELLER'S  STORY         93 

ate  with  my  simple,  outspoken,  free-riding  companions. 
Remorse  is  literally  burning  up  my  brain.  It  is  better 
to  have  my  mind  diseased,  my  moral  faculties  blurred, 
my  body  unsound;  for  to  be  normal,  healthy,  industrious 
is  to  remember  the  whole  ghastly  business  of  my  dis 
honor. 

"  'Pay  back!  Pay  back  in  some  way!'  a  voice  keeps 
saying.  'Pay  back!  Have  an  object  in  mind.  Get 
to  work  on  something  that  will  help  you  to  pay  back  or 
you  will  soon  take  a  plunge  to  lower  depths  than  you 
have  yet  sounded.' 

"It  is  not  the  gambling,  not  the  drinking — no!  The 
thing  that  I  cannot  forget,  that  grows  more  horrible 
the  more  keenly  awake  clean  living  makes  me  to  the 
past,  is  that  I  am  inwardly  foul — as  foul  as  a  priest  who 
has  broken  his  vows.  I  have  disgraced  the  uniform 
— my  country's  uniform.  I  may  never  wear  that  uni 
form  again;  never  look  the  meanest  private  in  a  battery 
in  the  face  without  feeling  my  cheeks  hot  with  shame. 
While  I  cannot  right  myself  before  the  service,  I  should 
like  to  do  something  to  right  myself  with  my  conscience. 
I  should  like  to  see  a  battery  march  past  and  look  at 
the  flag  and  into  the  faces  of  the  soldiers  of  my  coun 
try  feeling  that  I  had  atoned — feeling  so  for  my  own 
peace  of  mind — atoned  by  some  real  deed  of  service. 

"I  have  been  reading  how  Japanese  volunteers  made 
a  bridge  of  their  bodies  for  their  comrades  into  a  Rus 
sian  trench,  and  when  everybody  else  felt  a  horrible,  un 
canny  admiration  for  such  madness  I  have  envied  them 
the  glorious  exhilaration  of  the  moment  before  the  charge. 
That  was  a  sufficient  reward  in  life  for  death.  So  I 
come  again  to  you  for  help.  Now  that  you  are  chief  of 
intelligence  you  must  have  many  secret  agents  within 
the  inner  circle  of  the  army's  activities.  In  the  midst 
of  peace  and  the  commonplaces  of  drill  and  manoeuvres 
there  must  be  dangerous  and  trying  work  where  the  only 
distinction  is  service  for  the  cause — our  cause  of  three 
million  against  five.  Find  a  task  for  me,  no  matter 


94  THE  LAST  SHOT 

how  mean,  thankless,  or  dangerous,  Lanny.  The  more 
exacting  it  is  the  more  welcome,  for  the  better  will  be 
my  chance  to  get  right  with  myself." 

"Come!"  was  Lanstron's  cable  in  answer. 

At  the  time  he  had  not  chosen  any  employment  for 
Feller.  He  was  thinking  only  that  something  must  be 
found.  When  he  heard  of  the  death  of  the  Gallands' 
gardener  he  recollected  that  before  the  passion  for 
gambling  overtook  Feller  he  had  still  another  passion 
besides  his  guns.  The  garden  of  the  Feller  estate  had 
been  famous  in  its  neighborhood.  Young  Lanstron 
had  not  been  more  fond  of  the  society  of  an  engine- 
driver  than  young  Feller  of  a  gardener's.  On  a  holiday 
in  the  capital  with  his  fellow  cadets  he  would  separate 
from  them  to  spend  hours  in  the  botanical  gardens. 
Once,  after  his  downfall  began,  at  a  riotous  dinner  party 
he  had  broken  into  a  temper  with  a  man  who  had  torn 
a  rose  to  pieces  in  order  to  toss  the  petals  over  the  table. 

" Flowers  have  souls!"  he  had  cried  in  one  of  his 
tumultuous,  abandoned  reversions  to  his  better  self 
which  his  companions  found  eccentric  and  diverting. 
"That  rose  is  the  only  thing  in  the  room  that  is  not  foul 
—and  I  am  the  foulest  of  all!" 

The  next  minute,  perhaps  after  another  glass  of  cham 
pagne,  he  would  be  winning  a  burst  of  laughter  by  his 
mimicry  of  a  gouty  old  colonel  reprimanding  him  for  his 
erring  career. 

Naturally,  in  the  instinct  of  friendship,  Lanstron's  own 
account  left  out  the  unpleasant  and  dwelt  on  the  pleas 
ant  facts  of  Feller's  career. 

"His  colonel  did  not  understand  him,"  he  said.  "But 
I  knew  the  depths  of  his  fine  spirit  and  generous  heart. 
I  knew  his  talent.  I  knew  that  he  was  a  victim  of  un 
sympathetic  surroundings,  of  wealth,  of  love  of  excite 
ment,  and  his  own  talent.  Where  he  was,  something 
must  happen.  He  bubbled  with  energy.  The  routine 
of  drill,  the  same  old  chaff  of  the  mess,  the  garrison 
gossip,  the  long  hours  of  idleness  while  the  busy  world 


MARTA  HEARS  FELLER'S  STORY         95 

throbs  outside,  which  form  a  privileged  life  to  most 
officers,  were  stifling  to  him.  'Let's  set  things  going!' 
he  would  say  in  the  old  days,  and  we'd  set  them.  Most 
of  our  demerits  were  for  some  kind  of  deviltry.  And  how 
he  loved  the  guns!  I  can  see  the  sparkle  of  his  men's 
eyes  at  sight  of  him.  Nobody  could  get  out  of  them 
what  he  could.  If  he  had  not  been  put  in  the  army  as  a 
matter  of  family  custom,  if  he  had  been  an  actor,  or  if 
he  and  I  had  gone  to  build  bridges,  then  he  might  have  a 
line  of  capital  letters  and  periods  after  his  name,  and  he 
would  not  be  a  spy  or  I  an  employer  of  spies,  doing  the 
work  of  a  detective  agency  in  an  officer's  uniform  be 
cause  nobody  but  an  officer  may  do  it." 

At  first  Marta  listened  rigidly,  but  as  the  narrative 
proceeded  her  interest  grew.  When  Lanstron  quoted 
Feller's  appeal  for  any  task,  however  mean  and  thank 
less,  she  nodded  sympathetically  and  understandingly; 
when  he  related  the  incident  of  the  rose,  its  appeal 
was  irresistible.  She  gave  a  start  of  delight  and  broke 
silence. 

"Yes.  I  recall  just  how  he  looked  as  he  stood  on 
the  porch,  his  head  bent,  his  shoulders  stooped,  twirling 
his  hat  in  his  hands,  while  mother  and  I  examined  him 
as  to  his  qualifications,"  she  said.  "I  remember  his 
words.  He  said  that  he  knew  flowers  and  that,  like  him, 
flowers  could  not  hear;  but  perhaps  he  would  be  all  the 
better  gardener  because  he  could  not  hear.  He  was  so 
ingratiating;  yet  his  deafness  seemed  such  a  drawback 
that  I  hesitated." 

Following  the  path  to  the  tower  leisurely,  they  had 
reached  the  tower.  Feller's  door  was  open.  Marta 
looked  into  the  room,  finding  in  the  neat  arrangement 
of  its  furniture  a  new  significance.  He  was  absent,  for 
it  was  the  dinner  hour. 

"And  on  my  recommendation  you  took  him,"  Lan 
stron  continued. 

"Yes,  on  yours,  Lanny,  on  a  friend's!  You" — she  put 
a  cold  emphasis  on  the  word — "you  wanted  him  here 


96  THE  LAST  SHOT 

for  your  plans!  And  why?  You  haven't  answered  that 
yet.  What  purpose  of  the  war  game  does  he  serve  in 
our  garden?" 

His  look  pleaded  for  patience,  while  he  tried  to  smile, 
which  was  rather  difficult  in  face  of  her  attitude. 

"Not  altogether  in  the  garden;  partly  in  the  tower," 
he  replied.  "You  are  to  be  in  the  whole  secret  and  in 
such  a  way  as  to  make  my  temptation  clear,  I  hope. 
First,  I  think  you  ought  to  see  the  setting.  Let  us 
go  in." 

Impelled  by  the  fascination  of  Feller's  romantic  story 
and  by  a  curiosity  that  Lanstron's  manner  accentuated, 
she  entered  the  room.  Apparently  Lanstron  was  fa 
miliar  with  the  premises.  Passing  through  the  sitting- 
room  into  the  room  adjoining,  where  Feller  stored  his 
tools,  he  opened  a  door  that  gave  onto  the  circular  stone 
steps  leading  down  into  the  dungeon  tunnel. 

"I  think  we  had  better  have  a  light,"  he  said,  and 
when  he  had  fetched  one  from  the  bedchamber  he  de 
scended  the  steps,  asking  her  to  follow. 

They  were  in  a  passage  six  feet  in  height  and  about 
three  feet  broad,  which  seemed  to  lead  on  indefinitely 
into  clammy  darkness.  The  dewy  stone  walls  sparkled 
in  fantastic  and  ghostly  iridescence  under  the  rays  from 
the  lantern.  The  dank  air  lay  moist  against  their  faces. 

"It's  a  long  time  since  I've  been  here,"  said  Marta, 
glad  to  break  the  uncanny  sound  of  their  footsteps  in  the 
weird  silence  with  her  voice.  "Not  since  I  was  a  young 
ster.  Then  I  came  on  a  dare  to  see  if  there  were  goblins. 
There  weren't  any;  at  least,  none  that  cared  to  manifest 
himself  to  me." 

"We  have  a  goblin  here  now  that  we  are  nursing 
for  the  Grays — an  up-to-date  one  that  is  quite  visible," 
said  Lanstron.  "This  is  far  enough."  He  paused  and 
raised  the  lantern.  With  its  light  full  in  her  face,  she 
blinked.  "There,  at  the  height  of  your  chin!" 

She  noted  a  metal  button  painted  gray,  set  at  the  side 
of  one  of  the  stones  of  the  wall,  which  looked  unreal. 


MARTA  HEARS  FELLER'S  STORY         97 

She  struck  the  stone  with  her  knuckles  and  it  gave  out 
the  sound  of  hollow  wood,  which  was  followed,  as  an 
echo,  by  a  little  laugh  from  Lanstron.  Pressing  the 
button,  a  panel  door  flew  open,  revealing  a  telephone 
mouthpiece  and  receiver  set  in  the  recess.  Without 
giving  him  time  to  refuse  permission,  her  thought  all 
submissive  to  the  prompting  spirit  of  adventure,  she 
took  down  the  receiver  and  called:  " Hello!" 

"The  wire  isn't  connected,"  explained  Lanstron. 

Marta  hung  up  the  receiver  and  closed  the  door 
abruptly  in  a  spasm  of  reaction. 

"Like  a  detective  play!"  were  the  first  words  that 
sprang  to  her  lips.  "Well?"  As  she  faced  around  her 
eyes  glittered  in  the  lantern's  rays.  "Well,  have  you 
any  other  little  tricks  to  show  me?  Are  you  a  sleight- 
of-hand  artist,  too,  Lanny?  Are  you  going  to  take  a 
machine  gun  out  of  your  hat?" 

"That  is  the  whole  bag,"  he  answered.  "I  thought 
you'd  rather  see  it  than  have  it  described  to  you." 

"Having  seen  it,  let  us  go!"  she  said,  in  a  manner  that 
implied  further  reckoning  to  come. 

"If  out  of  a  thousand  possible  sources  one  source  suc 
ceeds,  then  the  cost  and  pains  of  the  other  nine  hundred 
and  ninety-nine  are  more  than  repaid,"  he  was  saying 
urgently,  the  soldier  uppermost  in  him.  "Some  of  the 
best  service  we  have  had  has  been  absurd  in  its  simplicity 
and  its  audacity.  In  time  of  war  more  than  one  battle 
has  been  decided  by  a  thing  that  was  a  trifle  in  itself. 
No  matter  what  your  preparation,  you  can  never  re 
move  the  element  of  chance.  An  hour  gained  in  in 
formation  about  your  enemy's  plans  may  turn  the  tide 
in  your  favor.  A  Chinese  peasant  spy,  because  he  hap 
pened  to  be  intoxicated,  was  able  to  give  the  Japanese 
warning  in  time  for  Kuroki  to  make  full  dispositions  for 
receiving  the  Russian  attack  in  force  at  the  Sha-ho. 
There  are  many  other  incidents  of  like  nature  in  history. 
So  it  is  my  duty  to  neglect  no  possible  method,  however 
absurd." 


98  THE  LAST  SHOT 

By  this  time  he  was  at  the  head  of  the  steps.  Stand 
ing  to  one  side,  he  offered  his  hand  to  assist  Marta. 
But  she  seemed  not  to  see  it.  Her  aspect  was  that  of 
downright  antagonism. 

"However  absurd!  yes,  it  is  absurd  to  think  that  you 
can  make  me  a  party  to  any  of  your  plans,  for — " 
She  broke  off  abruptly  with  starting  eyes,  as  if  she  had 
seen  an  apparition. 

Lanstron  turned  and  through  the  door  of  the  tool 
room  saw  Feller  entering  the  sitting-room.  He  was  not 
the  bent,  deferential  old  gardener,  nor  was  he  the  Feller 
changed  to  youth  as  he  thought  of  himself  at  the  head  of 
a  battery.  His  features  were  hard-set,  a  fighting  rage 
burning  in  his  eyes,  his  sinews  taut  as  if  about  to  spring 
upon  an  adversary.  When  he  recognized  the  intruders 
he  turned  limp,  his  head  dropped,  hiding  his  face  with  his 
hat  brim,  and  he  steadied  himself  by  resting  a  hand  on 
the  table  edge. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Lanny — Colonel  Lanstron!"  he  ex 
claimed  thickly.  "  I  saw  that  some  one  had  come  in  here 
and  naturally  I  was  alarmed,  as  nobody  but  myself  ever 
enters.  And  Miss  Galland!"  He  removed  his  hat 
deferentially  and  bowed;  his  stoop  returned  and  the 
lines  of  his  face  drooped.  "I  was  so  stupid;  it  did  not 
occur  to  me  that  you  might  be  showing  the  tower  to 
Colonel  Lanstron." 

"We  are  sorry  to  have  given  you  a  fright!"  said 
Marta  very  gently. 

"Eh?  eh?"  queried  Feller,  again  deaf.  "Fright? 
Oh,  no,  no  fright.  It  might  have  been  some  boys  from 
the  town  marauding." 

He  was  about  to  withdraw,  in  keeping  with  his  cir 
cumspect  adherence  to  his  part,  which  he  played  with  a 
sincerity  that  half-convinced  even  himself  at  times  that 
he  was  really  deaf,  when  the  fire  flickered  back  suddenly 
to  his  eyes  and  he  glanced  from  Lanstron  to  the  stair 
way  in  desperate  inquiry. 

"Wait,  Feller!    Three  of  us  share  the  secret  now. 


MARTA  HEARS  FELLER'S  STORY         99 

These  are  Miss  Galland's  premises.    I  thought  best  that 
she  should  know  everything,"  said  Lanstron. 

"Everything!"    exclaimed    Feller.     "Everything— 
the  word  caught  in  his  throat.     "You  mean  my  story, 
too?  "    He  was  neither  young  nor  old  now.    He  seemed 
nondescript  and  miserable.     "She  knows  who  I  am?" 
he  asked. 

"Yes!"  Lanstron  answered. 

"Lanny!"  This  almost  reproachfully,  as  if  the  ethics 
of  friendship  had  been  abused. 

"Yes.  I'm  sorry,  Gustave.  I — "  Lanstron  began 
miserably. 

"But  why  not?"  said  Feller,  with  a  wan  attempt  at  a 
smile.  "You  see — I  mean — it  does  not  matter!"  he 
concluded  in  a  hopeless  effort  at  philosophy. 

"My  thoughtlessness,  my  callousness,  my  obsession 
with  my  work!  I  should  not  have  told  your  story," 
said  Lanstron. 

"His  story!"  exclaimed  Marta,  with  a  puzzled  look 
to  Lanstron  before  she  turned  to  Feller  with  a  look  of 
warm  sympathy.  "Why,  there  is  no  story!  You  came 
with  excellent  recommendations.  You  are  our  very 
efficient  gardener.  That  is  all  we  need  to  know.  Isn't 
that  the  way  you  wish  it,  Mr.  Feller?" 

"Yes,  just  that!"  he  said  softly,  raising  his  eyes  to  her 
in  gratitude.  "Thank  you,  Miss  Galland!" 

He  was  going  after  another  "Thank  you!"  and  a  bow; 
going  with  the  slow  step  and  stoop  of  his  part,  when 
Lanstron,  with  a  masculine  roughness  of  impulse  which 
may  be  a  sublime  gentleness,  swung  him  around  and 
seized  his  hands  in  a  firm  caress. 

"Forgive  me,  Gustave!"  he  begged.  "Forgive  the 
most  brutal  of  all  injuries — that  which  wounds  a  friend's 
sensibilities." 

"Why,  there  is  nothing  I  could  ever  have  to  forgive 
you,  Lanny,"  he  said,  returning  Lanstron's  pressure 
while  for  an  instant  his  quickening  muscles  gave  him  a 
soldierly  erectness.  Then  his  attitude  changed  to  one 


ioo  THE  LAST  SHOT 

of  doubt  and  inquiry.  "And  you  found  out  that  I  was 
not  deaf  when  you  had  that  fall  on  the  terrace?"  he 
asked,  turning  to  Marta.  "That  is  how  you  happened 
to  get  the  whole  story?  Tell  me,  honestly!" 

"Yes." 

"Had  you  suspected  me  before  that?" 

"Yes,  if  you  must  know.  I  observed  you  speak  to  a 
bumblebee  you  could  not  see,"  she  said  frankly,  though 
she  knew  that  her  answer  hurt  him.  There  was  no 
parleying  with  the  insistence  of  his  pale,  drawn  face  and 
his  fingers  playing  in  nervous  tension  on  the  table  edge. 
Suddenly  he  smiled  as  he  had  at  the  bumblebee. 

"There  you  are  again,  confound  you!"  he  exclaimed, 
shaking  his  finger  at  the  imaginary  intruder  on  the  silence 
of  the  garden.  "Did  any  one  else  suspect?"  he  asked 
in  fierce  intensity. 

"No,  I  don't  think  so." 

He  drew  back  with  a  long  breath  of  relief,  while  his 
fingers  now  beat  a  merry  tattoo. 

"You  saw  so  much  more  of  me  than  the  others,  Miss 
Galland,"  he  said  with  a  charming  bow,  "and  you  are 
so  quick  to  observe  that  you  are  hardly  a  fair  test.  That 
little  thunderer  will  not  get  me  again.  I'll  fool  the  ones 
I  want  to  fool.  And  I'm  learning,  Lanny,  learning  all 
the  time — getting  a  little  deafer  all  the  time.  Miss 
Galland,"  he  added,  struck  in  visible  contrition  by  a 
new  thought,  "I  am  sorry" — he  paused  with  head  down 
for  an  instant — "very  sorry  to  have  deceived  you." 

"But  you  are  still  a  deaf  gardener  to  me,"  said  Marta, 
finding  consolation  in  pleasing  him. 

"Eh?  eh?"  He  put  his  hand  to  his  ear  as  he  resumed 
his  stoop.  "Yes,  yes,"  he  added,  as  a  deaf  man  will 
when  understanding  of  a  remark  which  he  failed  at  first 
to  catch  comes  to  him  in  an  echo.  "Yes,  the  gardener 
has  no  past,"  he  declared  in  the  gentle  old  gardener's 
voice,  "when  all  the  flowers  die  every  year  and  he  thinks 
only  of  next  year's  blossoms — of  the  future!" 

Now  the  air  of  the  room  seemed  to  be  stifling  him, 


MARTA  HEARS  FELLER'S  STCR 7       201 

that  of  the  roofless  world  of  the  garden  calling  him.  His 
face  spoke  pitifully  a  desire  for  escape  as  he  withdrew. 
The  bent  figure  disappeared  around  a  turn  in  the  path 
and  they  listened  without  moving  until  the  sound  of  his 
slow,  dragging  footfalls  had  died  away. 

"When  he  is  serving  those  of  his  own  social  station 
I  can  see  how  it  would  be  easier  for  him  not  to  have  me 
know,"  said  Marta.  "Sensitive,  proud,  and  intense— 
and  a  look  of  horror  appeared  in  her  eyes.  "As  he  came 
across  the  room  his  face  was  transformed.  I  imagine 
it  was  like  that  of  a  man  giving  no  quarter  in  a  bayonet 
charge!" 

"His  secret  was  at  stake!"  Lanstron  said  in  ready 
championship. 

She  put  up  her  hand  as  if  to  shut  out  a  picture. 

"Don't  let  us  think  of  it!"  she  exclaimed  with  a 
shudder.  "He  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing.  His 
is  one  of  the  natures  that  have  moments  when  an  im 
pulse  throws  them  off  their  balance  and  ruins  the  work 
of  years.  No,  we  must  think  only  of  his  sacrifice,  his 
enforced  humiliation,  in  order  to  try  to  make  amends 
for  the  past  according  to  his  light.  No  one  could  refuse 
him  sympathy  and  respect." 

Feller  had  won  the  day  for  himself  where  a  friend's 
pleas  might  have  failed.  This  was  as  it  should  be, 
Lanstron  thought;  and  he  smiled  happily  over  the  rare 
thing  in  Marta  that  felt  the  appeal  which  Feller  had  for 
him. 

"The  right  view — the  view  that  you  were  bound  to 
take!"  he  said. 

"And  yet,  I  don't  know  your  plans  for  him,  Lanny. 
Pity  is  one  thing;  there  is  another  thing  to  consider," 
she  replied,  with  an  abrupt  change  of  tone.  "But  first 
let  us  leave  Feller's  quarters.  We  are  intruders  here." 


XII 
A  CRISIS  WITHIN  A  CRISIS 

"A  BROKEN-HEARTED  man  playing  deaf;  a  secret  tele 
phone  installed  on  our  premises  without  our  consent — 
this  is  all  I  know  so  far,"  said  Marta,  who  was  opposite 
Lanstron  at  one  end  of  the  circular  seat  in  the  arbor  of 
Mercury,  leaning  back,  with  her  weight  partly  resting 
on  her  hand  spread  out  on  the  edge  of  the  bench,  head 
down,  lashes  lowered  so  that  they  formed  a  curtain  for 
her  glance.  "I  listen!"  she  added. 

"Of  course,  with  our  three  millions  against  their  five, 
the  Grays  will  take  the  offensive,"  he  said.  "For  us,  the 
defensive.  La  Tir  is  in  an  angle.  It  does  not  belong 
in  the  permanent  tactical  line  of  our  defences.  Never 
theless,  there  will  be  hard  fighting  here.  The  Browns 
will  fall  back  step  by  step,  and  we  mean,  with  relatively 
small  cost  to  ourselves,  to  make  the  Grays  pay  a  heavy 
price  for  each  step — just  as  heavy  as  we  can!" 

They  had  often  argued  before  with  all  the  weapons 
known  to  controversy;  but  now  the  realization  that  his 
soldierly  precision  was  bringing  the  forces  of  war  into 
their  personal  relations  struck  her  cold,  with  a  logic  as 
cold  as  his  own  seemed  to  her. 

"You  need  not  use  euphonious  terms,"  she  said  with 
out  lifting  her  lashes  or  any  movement  except  a  quick, 
nervous  gesture  of  her  free  hand  that  fell  back  into  place 
on  her  lap.  "What  you  mean  is  that  you  will  kill  as 
many  as  possible  of  the  Grays,  isn't  it?  And  if  you  could 
kill  five  for  every  man  you  lost,  that  would  be  splendid, 
wouldn't  it?" 

"I  don't  think  of  it  as  splendid.  There  is  nothing 
splendid  about  war,"  he  objected;  "not  to  me,  Marta." 


A  CRISIS  WITHIN  A  CRISIS  103 

"  Still  you  would  like  to  kill  five  to  one,  even  ten  to 
one,  wouldn't  you?"  she  persisted. 

"Marta,  you  are  merciless!" 

"So  is  war.    It  should  be  treated  mercilessly." 

"Yes,  twenty  to  one  if  they  try  to  take  our  land!"  he 
declared.  "  If  we  could  keep  up  that  ratio  the  war  would 
not  last  more  than  a  week.  It  would  mean  a  great  sav 
ing  of  lives  in  the  end.  We  should  win." 

"Exactly.  Thank  you.  Westerling  could  not  have 
said  it  better  as  a  reason  for  another  army-corps.  For 
the  love  of  humanity — the  humanity  of  our  side — please 
give  us  more  weapons  for  murder!  And  after  you  have 
made  them  pay  five  to  one  or  ten  to  one  in  human  lives 
for  the  tangent,  what  then?  Go  on!  I  want  to  look 
at  war  face  to  face,  free  of  the  will-o'-the-wisp  glamour 
that  draws  on  soldiers!" 

"We  fall  back  to  our  first  line  of  defence,  fighting  all 
the  time.  The  Grays  occupy  La  Tir,  which  will  be 
out  of  the  reach  of  our  guns.  Your  house  will  no  longer 
be  in  danger,  and  we  happen  to  know  that  Westerling 
means  to  make  it  his  headquarters." 

"Our  house  Westerling's  headquarters!"  she  repeated. 
With  a  start  that  brought  her  up  erect,  alert,  challeng 
ing,  her  lashes  flickering,  she  recalled  that  Westerling 
had  said  at  parting  that  he  should  see  her  if  war  came. 
This  corroborated  Lanstron's  information.  One  side 
wanted  a  spy  in  the  garden;  the  other  a  general  in  the 
house.  Was  she  expected  to  make  a  choice?  He  had 
ceased  to  be  Lanny.  He  personified  war.  Westerling 
personified  war.  "I  suppose  you  have  spies  under  his 
very  nose — in  his  very  staff  offices?"  she  asked. 

"And  probably  he  has  in  ours,"  said  Lanstron, 
"though  we  do  our  best  to  prevent  it." 

"What  a  pretty  example  of  trust  among  civilized 
nations!"  she  exclaimed.  "And  you  say  that  Wester 
ling,  who  commands  the  killing  on  his  side,  will  be  in  no 
danger?" 

"Naturally  not.     As  you  know,  a  chief  of  staff  must 


104  THE  LAST  SHOT 

be  at  the  wire  head  where  all  information  centres,  free 
of  interruption  or  confusion  or  any  possibility  of  broken 
lines  of  communication  with  his  corps  and  divisions." 

"Then  Partow  will  not  be  in  any  danger?" 

"For  the  same  reasons,  no." 

"How  comfortable!  In  perfect  safety  themselves, 
they  will  order  other  men  to  death!" 

"Marta,  you  are  unjust!"  exclaimed  Lanstron,  for 
he  revered  Partow  as  disciple  reveres  master.  "Partow 
has  the  iron  cross!" — the  prized  iron  cross  given  to  both 
officers  and  men  of  the  Browns  for  exceptional  courage 
in  action  and  for  that  alone.  "He  won  it  leading  a 
second  charge  with  a  bullet  in  his  arm,  after  he  had  lost 
thirty  per  cent,  of  his  regiment.  The  second  charge 
succeeded." 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  she  went  on  a  little  wildly. 
"And  perhaps  the  colonel  on  the  other  side,  who  fought 
just  as  bravely  and  had  even  heavier  losses,  did  not  get 
the  bronze  cross  of  the  Grays  because  he  failed.  Yes, 
I  understand  that  bravery  is  a  requisite  of  the  military 
cult.  You  must  take  some  risk  or  you  will  not  cause 
enough  slaughter  to  win  either  iron  or  bronze  crosses. 
And,  Lanny,  are  you  a  person  of  such  distinction  in 
the  business  of  killing  that  you  also  will  be  out  of 
danger?" 

She  had  forgotten  about  the  telephone;  she  had  for 
gotten  the  picture  of  dare-devil  nerve  he  made  when  he 
rose  from  the  wreck  of  his  plane.  If  his  work  were  to 
make  war,  her  work  was  against  war — the  mission  of  her 
life  as  she  saw  it  in  the  intense,  passionate  moments  when 
some  new  absurdity  of  its  processes  appeared  to  her. 
She  was  ready  to  seize  any  argument  his  talk  offered  to 
combat  the  things  for  which  he  stood.  She  did  not  see, 
as  her  eyes  poured  her  hot  indignation  into  his,  that  his 
maimed  hand  was  twitching  or  how  he  bit  his  lips  and 
flushed  before  he  replied: 

"Each  one  goes  where  he  is  sent,  link  by  link,  down 
from  the  chief  of  staff.  Only  in  this  way  can  you  have 


A  CRISIS  WITHIN  A  CRISIS  105 

that  solidarity,  that  harmonious  efficiency  which  means 
victory." 

"An  autocracy,  a  tyranny  over  the  lives  of  all  the 
adult  males  in  countries  that  boast  of  the  ballot  and  self- 
governing  institutions!"  she  put  in. 

"But  I  hope,"  he  went  on,  with  the  quickening  pulse 
and  eager  smile  that  used  to  greet  a  call  from  Feller  to 
"set  things  going"  in  their  cadet  days,  "that  I  may  take 
out  a  squadron  of  dirigibles.  After  all  this  spy  business, 
that  would  be  to  my  taste." 

"And  if  you  caught  a  regiment  in  close  formation 
with  a  shower  of  bombs,  that  would  be  positively  heav 
enly,  wouldn't  it?"  She  bent  nearer  to  him,  her  eyes 
flaming  demand  and  satire. 

"No!  War — necessary,  horrible,  hellish!"  he  replied. 
Something  in  her  seemed  to  draw  out  the  brutal  truth 
she  had  asked  for  in  place  of  euphonious  terms. 

"You  apparently  know  where  your  profession  ought 
to  feel  perfectly  at  home — but  what  is  the  use?  What?  " 
She  put  her  hands  over  her  face  and  shuddered.  "I 
grow  savage;  but  it  is  because  I  have  known  you  so  well 
and  because  everything  you  say  brings  up  its  answer 
irresistibly  to  my  mind.  I  keep  thinking  of  what  mother 
said  at  luncheon — of  her  certainty  that  war  is  coming. 
I  see  the  garden  spattered  with  blood,  the  wounded  and 
the  dying — an  eddy  in  the  conflict!  And  I  am  in  a  con 
troversial  eddy  whirling  round  and  round  away  from 
the  main  current  of  what  you  were  to  tell  me."  She 
let  her  hands  drop,  but  her  eyes  still  held  their  lights 
of  hostility.  "Go  on.  I  listen!" 

"When  I  became  chief  of  intelligence  I  found  that  an 
underground  wire  had  been  laid  to  the  castle  from  the 
Eighth  Division  headquarters,  which  will  be  our  gen 
eral  staff  headquarters  in  time  of  war,"  he  said.  "The 
purpose  was  the  same  as  now,  but  abandoned  as  chi 
merical.  All  that  was  necessary  was  to  install  the 
instrument,  which  Feller  did.  I,  too,  saw  the  plan  as 
chimerical,  yet  it  was  a  chance — the  one  out  of  a  thou- 


io6  THE  LAST  SHOT 

sand.  If  it  should  happen  to  succeed  we  should  play 
with  our  cards  concealed  and  theirs  on  the  table." 

"The  noble  art  of  war,  so  sportsmanlike ! "  she  ex 
claimed.  "So  like  the  rules  and  ideals  of  the  Olympic 
games!  But  the  games  will  not  serve  to  keep  nations 
virile.  They  must  shed  blood  1" 

"Sportsmanlike?  Not  in  the  least!"  he  said.  "The 
sport  and  glamour  of  war  are  past.  The  army  becomes 
a  business,  a  trade  that  ought  to  be  uniformed  in  blue 
jumpers  rather  than  gold  lace.  We  are  in  an  era  of 
enormous  forces,  untried  tactics,  and  rapidly  changing 
conditions.  This  is  why  the  big  nations  hesitate  to 
make  war;  why  they  prepare  well;  why  the  stake  is  so 
great  that  the  smallest  detail  must  not  be  overlooked." 

She  could  not  hold  back  her  arguments,  reason  was 
so  unquestionably  on  her  side. 

"Yes,  the  cunning  of  the  fox,  the  brutality  of  Cain, 
using  modern  science  and  invention!  Feint  and  draw 
your  enemy  into  a  cul-de-sac;  screen  your  flank  attacks; 
mask  your  batteries  and  hold  their  fire  till  the  infantry 
charge  is  ripe  for  decimation!  Oh,  I  have  been  brought 
up  among  soldiers !  I  know ! ' ' 

"The  rest  of  Feller's  part  you  have  guessed  already," 
he  concluded.  "You  can  see  how  a  deaf,  inoffensive 
old  gardener  would  hardly  seem  to  know  a  Gray  soldier 
from  a  Brown;  how  it  might  no  more  occur  to  Wester- 
ling  to  send  him  away  than  the  family  dog  or  cat;  how 
he  might  retain  his  quarters  in  the  tower;  how  he  could 
judge  the  atmosphere  of  the  staff,  whether  elated  or  de 
pressed,  pick  up  scraps  of  conversation,  and,  as  a  trained 
officer,  know  the  value  of  what  he  heard  and  report  it 
over  the  'phone  to  Partow's  headquarters." 

"But  what  about  the  aeroplanes?"  she  asked.  "I 
thought  you  were  to  depend  on  them  for  scouting." 

"We  shall  use  them,  but  they  are  the  least  tried  of  all 
the  new  resources,"  he  said.  "A  Gray  aeroplane  may 
cut  a  Brown  aeroplane  down  before  it  returns  with  the 
news  we  want.  At  most,  when  the  aviator  may  descend 


A  CRISIS  WITHIN  A  CRISIS  107 

low  enough  for  accurate  observation  he  can  see  only 
what  is  actually  being  done.  Feller  would  know  Wester- 
ling's  plans  before  they  were  even  in  the  first  steps  of  exe 
cution.  This" — playing  the  thought  happily — "this 
would  be  the  ideal  arrangement,  while  our  planes  and 
dirigibles  were  kept  over  our  lines  to  strike  down  theirs. 
And,  Marta,  that  is  all,"  he  concluded.  "I've  tried  to 
make  everything  clear." 

"You  have,  quite!"  Marta  replied  decisively.  "Now 
it  is  my  turn  to  talk." 

"You  have  been  talking  a  little  already!"  he  inti 
mated  good-naturedly. 

"Only  interruptions.  That's  not  really  talking,"  she 
answered,  and  broke  into  a  sharp  little  laugh.  A  laugh 
was  helpful  to  both  after  such  a  taut  colloquy,  but  it 
seemed  only  to  renew  her  energies  for  conflict.  "If 
there  is  war,  the  moment  that  Feller's  ruse  is  discovered 
he  will  be  shot  as  a  spy?"  she  asked. 

"I  warned  him  of  that,"  said  Lanstron.  "I  made  the 
situation  plain.  He  refused  the  assignments  I  first  sug 
gested  to  him.  He  objected  that  they  did  not  offer  any 
real  expiation;  they  were  not  difficult  or  hazardous 
enough.  I  saw  that  I  could  not  trick  his  conscience — 
what  a  conscience  old  Gustave  has! — by  any  nominal 
task.  When  I  mentioned  this  one  he  was  instantly 
keen.  The  deafness  was  his  idea  of  a  ruse  for  his  pur 
pose.  He  wanted  his  secret  kept.  Thinking  that  his 
weakness  for  change  would  not  let  him  bear  the  monot 
ony  of  a  gardener's  life  as  he  saw  himself  bearing  it  in 
imagination,  I  recommended  him  to  you.  And  there 
was  the  chance — the  thousandth  chance,  Marta!  He 
is  a  soldier,  with  a  soldier's  fatalism.  He  sees  no  more 
danger  in  this  than  in  commanding  a  battery  in  a  crisis." 

"Naturally,  as  he  is  all  impulse  and  fire.  But  you 
are  the  tempered  steel  of  self-control.  You  should  save 
him  from  his  impulses,  not  make  use  of  them." 

"You  put  it  bluntly,  Marta.    You ' 

"My  turn  to  talk!"  she  reminded  him.   "Did  you 


io8  THE  LAST  SHOT 

consider  our  position,  the  history  of  our  family?  The 
men  of  the  Gallands  have  served  on  both  sides. " 

"As  interruptions  are  not  talking,  I  might  remind  you 
that  in  the  last  war  and  the  war  before  that  they  were 
on  our  side,"  he  observed. 

"Now  there  are  no  men,  only  my  mother  and  I  and 
the  impoverished  estate,  which  is  very  dear  to  us,"  she 
proceeded.  "But  we  have  to  pay  our  share  of  the  taxes 
to  keep  up  the  ever-increasing  armaments.  Oh,  you 
don't  know  how  we  must  count  the  pennies  in  order  to 
live  within  our  income!  We  cannot  fight,  only  play  the 
woman's  part:  conserve  what  we  have  and  wait  helplessly 
while  the  storm  rages  around  us.  You  admit  that  your 
army  cannot  protect  us.  You  admit  that  you  will  fall 
back  from  the  tangent.  Thus  we  shall  pass  under  an 
other  flag,  submit  to  another  Caesar.  Do  you  think  that 
we  have  any  choice  in  Caesars?  You  know  my  views — a 
plague  on  all  armies!  Westerling,  whom  we  know,  be 
comes  a  guest  in  our  house.  I  see  him  as  I  see  any  dis 
tinguished  army  officer:  exemplifying  with  high  intel 
ligence  and  agreeable  manners  a  brute  force  that  is  all 
the  same  to  me  whether  its  uniform  be  brown  or  gray 
or  pink." 

"You  mean  that,  Marta?"  he  asked  dismally,  as  if  a 
faith  strong  within  him  had  been  shattered.  "You  truly 
mean  that?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  driving  her  words  with  a  head 
long  rapidity.  "Yes,  out  of  all  my  reading,  my  reason, 
my  travel.  I  lay  awake  thinking  about  it  in  the  sleeper 
on  my  journey  home.  Friendship  between  two  human 
beings  is  something  more  sacred  to  me  than  patriotic 
passion.  But  again,  to  consider  our  situation.  Suppose 
that  the  Grays  win?  Suppose  that  La  Tir  is  perma 
nently  theirs?" 

"They  shall  not  win!  They  must  not!"  Lanstron 
exclaimed,  his  tone  as  rigid  as  Westerling's  toward  her 
second  prophecy. 

"Yet  if  they  should  win  and  Westerling  finds  that  I 


A  CRISIS  WITHIN  A  CRISIS  109 

have  been  party  to  this  treachery,  as  I  shall  be  now  that 
I  am  in  the  secret,  think  of  the  position  of  my  mother 
and  myself!"  she  continued.  "Has  that  occurred  to 
you,  a  friend,  in  making  our  property,  our  garden,  our 
neutrality,  which  is  our  only  defence,  a  factor  in  one  of 
your  plans  without  our  permission?" 

Her  eyes,  blue-black  in  appeal  and  reproach,  revealed 
the  depths  of  a  wound  as  they  had  on  the  terrace  steps 
before  luncheon,  when  he  had  been  apprised  of  a  feeling 
for  him  by  seeing  it  dead  under  his  blow.  The  logic  of 
the  chief  of  intelligence  withered.  He  understood  how  a 
friendship  to  her  was,  indeed,  more  sacred  than  patriotic 
passion.  He  realized  the  shame  of  what  he  had  done 
now  that  he  was  free  of  professional  influences. 

"You  are  right,  Marta,"  he  replied.  "It  was  beastly 
of  me — there  is  no  excuse.  Of  course,  Gustave  shall 

go." 

He  saw  a  sparkle  of  delight,  of  gratitude,  of  forgive 
ness,  if  not  the  thing  that  he  sought,  come  to  life. 

"Lanny!"  She  touched  his  arm  with  a  swift,  flut 
tering  movement  of  the  fingers.  But  as  they  drew  away 
a  shadow  crept  into  her  face.  "And  when  you  tell  him, 
what  will  happen?"  she  asked  in  sudden  apprehension. 

"Why,  I  shall  try  to  get  him  to  undertake  something 
less  dangerous  and  less  inconsiderate  of  friendship." 

"Try,  you  say.  What  do  you  think  he  will  do?"  she 
demanded. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  honestly?" 

"Please,  very  honestly!"  she  answered,  a  tightening 
at  the  throat. 

"Then,  his  heart  is  fixed  on  the  plan;  his  mind  steeped 
in  it.  The  whole  setting — the  garden,  the  flowers,  the 
ruse,  the  gamble — appeals  to  his  imagination.  Send 
him  away — well,  you  must  have  had  a  little  insight  into 
his  character  in  that  scene  in  the  tower.  Send  him 
away  and " 

She  took  the  words  from  him  in  an  abrupt  gesture 
as  she  looked  past  him  at  a  picture  that  was  composite 


no  THE  LAST  SHOT 

of  all  her  views  of  Feller  from  his  entrance  to  his  quarters 
till  he  had  gone.  Her  lips,  which  had  kept  so  firm  in 
argument,  were  parted  and  trembling  in  sympathy. 

"I  can  see  how  he  would  take  it!"  she  exclaimed. 
"I  see  his  white  hair,  his  eyes,  his  fingers  trembling  on 
the  edge  of  the  table,  his  utter  dejection — and  then  im 
pulse,  headlong,  irresponsible,  craving  the  devil's  com 
pany!" 

"Yes,  nothing  could  hold  him,"  Lanstron  agreed. 
"What  makes  it  worse  is  that  with  regular  living,  the 
pleasure  of  the  garden,  and  a  settled  purpose  I  have 
noticed  his  improvement  already!" 

"There  is  something  so  fine  about  him,  something 
that  deserves  to  win  out  against  his  weaknesses,"  she 
said  reflectively. 

"If  there  is  no  war,  I  hope — after  a  year  or  so,  I  hope 
and  believe  that  I  may  have  him  rewarded  in  some  way 
that  would  make  him  feel  that  he  had  atoned." 

"And  we  have  been  talking  as  if  war  were  due  to 
morrow!"  she  exclaimed.  The  breaking  light  of  a  dis 
covery,  followed  by  a  wave  of  happy  relief,  swept  over 
her  responsive  features,  from  relaxing  brows  to  chin, 
which  gave  a  toss  on  its  own  account.  "Why,  of  course, 
Lanny!  Till  war  does  come  he  is  only  a  gardener  with 
an  illusion  that  is  giving  mental  strength.  Why  didn't 
you  put  it  that  way  before?"  she  asked  in  surprise  at  so 
easy  a  solution  having  escaped  them.  "Let  him  stay,  at 
least  until  war  comes." 

"And  then?" 

"Lanny,  you  yourself,  with  all  your  information,  you 
don't  think— 

"No;  though  we  are  nearer  it  than  ever  before,  it 
seems  to  me,"  he  said,  choosing  his  words  carefully. 
"But  it  is  likely  that  diplomacy  will  find  its  way  out  of 
this  crisis  as  it  has  out  of  many  others." 

"Then  we'll  leave  that  question  till  the  evil  day,"  she 
replied.  "We  have  had  a  terrific  argument,  Lanny, 
haven't  we?  And  you  have  won!" 


A  CRISIS  WITHIN  A  CRISIS  in 

Her  fingers  flew  out  to  his  arm  and  rested  lightly  there 
after  an  instant's  firm  pressure,  as  was  her  wont  after 
an  argument  and  they  sheathed  their  blades.  Their 
comradeship  seemed  to  be  restored  in  all  its  old  glory  of 
freedom  from  petty  restraint.  He  was  sure  of  one  thing: 
that  she  would  let  her  fingers  remain  on  no  other  man's 
sleeve  in  this  fashion;  and  he  hoped  that  she  would  let 
them  remain  there  a  long  time.  Very  foolish  he  was 
about  her,  very  foolish  for  a  piece  of  human  machinery 
driven  by  the  dynamo  of  a  human  will. 

"I  have  an  impression  that  your  goodness  of  heart  has 
won,"  he  suggested  gently. 

"Or  rather  let  us  say  that  Feller  has  won." 

" Better  still,  yes,  Feller  has  won!"  he  agreed.  "Oh, 
it  is  good,  good,  good  to  be  here  with  you,  Marta,  away 
from  the  grind  for  a  little  while,"  he  was  saying,  in  the 
fulness  of  his  anticipation  of  the  hours  they  should  have 
together  before  he  had  to  go,  when  they  heard  the  sound 
of  steps.  He  looked  around  to  see  an  orderly  from  the 
nearest  military  wireless  station. 

"I  was  told  it  was  urgent,  sir,"  said  the  orderly,  in 
excuse  for  his  intrusion,  as  he  passed  a  telegram  to  Lan- 
stron. 

Immediately  Lanstron  felt  the  touch  of  the  paper  his 
features  seemed  to  take  on  a  mask  that  concealed  his 
thought  as  he  read: 

"Take  night  express.  Come  direct  from  station  to 
me.  Partow." 

This  meant  that  he  would  be  expected  at  Partow's 
office  at  eight  the  next  morning.  He  wrote  his  answer; 
the  orderly  saluted  and  departed  at  a  rapid  pace;  and 
then,  as  a  matter  of  habit  of  the  same  kind  that  makes 
some  men  wipe  their  pens  when  laying  them  down,  he 
struck  a  match  and  set  fire  to  one  corner  of  the  paper, 
which  burned  to  his  fingers'  ends  before  he  tossed  the 
charred  remains  away.  Marta  imagined  what  he  would 
be  like  with  the  havoc  of  war  raging  around  him — all  self- 
possession  and  mastery;  but  actually  he  was  trying  to 


ii2  THE  LAST  SHOT 

reassure  himself  that  he  ought  not  to  feel  petulant  over 
a  holiday  cut  short. 

"I  shall  have  to  go  at  once,"  he  said.  "Marta,  if 
there  were  to  be  war  very  soon — within  a  week  or  two 
weeks — what  would  be  your  attitude  about  Feller's  re 
maining?" 

"To  carry  out  his  plan,  you  mean?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause  on  her  part. 

"Let  him  stay,"  she  answered.  "I  shall  have  time 
to  decide  even  after  war  begins." 

"But  instantly  war  begins  you  must  go!"  he  declared 
urgently. 

"You  forget  a  precedent,"  she  reminded  him.  "The 
Galland  women  have  never  deserted  the  Galland  house!" 

"I  know  the  precedent.  But  this  time  the  house  will 
be  in  the  thick  of  the  fighting." 

"It  has  been  in  the  thick  of  the  fighting  before,"  she 
said,  with  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"Not  this  kind  of  fighting,  Marta,"  he  proceeded  very 
soberly.  "Other  wars  are  no  criterion  for  this.  I  know 
about  the  defences  of  the  tangent  because  I  helped  to 
plan  them.  In  order  to  keep  the  enemy  in  ignorance  we 
have  made  no  permanent  fortifications.  But  the  en 
gineers  and  the  material  will  be  ready,  instantly  the 
frontier  is  closed  to  intelligence,  to  construct  defences 
suited  to  a  delaying  and  punishing  action.  Every 
human  being  will  be  subject  to  martial  law;  every  re 
source  at  military  command.  Every  hill,  house,  ditch, 
and  tree  will  be  used  as  cover  or  protection  and  will  be 
subject  to  attack." 

Not  argument  this,  but  the  marshalling  of  facts  of  the 
kind  in  which  he  dealt  as  unanswerable  evidence,  while 
she  listened  with  a  still  face  and  dilating  eyes  that  did 
not  look  at  him  until  he  had  finished.  Then  a  smile 
came,  a  faint,  drawn  smile  of  irony,  and  her  eyes  staring 
into  his  were  chilling  and  greenish-black  in  their  anger. 

"And  the  house  of  a  friend  meant  nothing!    It  was 


A  CRISIS  WITHIN  A  CRISIS  113 

only  fuel  for  the  hell  you  devise!"  she  said,  making  each 
word  count  like  shot  singing  over  glare  ice. 

"It  is  only  fair  to  myself  to  say  that  when  I  laid  the 
sheets  of  my  map  before  Partow  I  had  excluded  your 
house  and  grounds,"  he  pleaded  in  defence.  "His 
thumb  pounced  on  that  telltale  blank  space.  'A  key- 
point!  So  this  is  your  tendon  of  Achilles,  eh?'  he  said 
in  his  blunt  fashion." 

"The  blunt  fashion  is  admired  by  soldiers,"  she  re 
plied  without  softening.  "Yes,  he  could  play  chess 
with  heaps  of  bodies!  He  is  worse  than  Westerling!" 

"No,  he  would  use  his  own  premises,  his  brother's,  his 
father's  if  it  would  help.  Well,  then  he  took  a  pen  and 
filled  in  the  blank  space  with  the  detail  which  is  to  make 
your  house  and  garden  the  centre  of  an  inferno." 

"How  Christian!"  breathed  Marta.  "I  suppose  he 
loves  his  grandchildren  and  that  they  are  taught  the 
Lord's  prayer!" 

"I  believe  his  only  pastime  is  playing  with  them," 
admitted  Lanstron,  stumbling  on,  trying  to  be  loyal  to 
Partow,  to  duty,  to  country,  no  longer  calm  or  dispas 
sionate,  but  demoralized  under  the  lash.  "He  tells 
them  that  when  they  are  grown  he  hopes  there  will  be 
an  end  of  war." 

"Worse  yet — a  hypocrite!" 

"But,  Marta,  I  never  knew  a  man  more  sincere.  He 
is  working  to  the  same  end  as  you — peace.  If  the  Grays 
would  play  with  fire  he  would  give  them  such  a  burning 
that  they  will  never  try  again.  He  would  make  war  too 
horrible  for  practice;  fix  the  frontier  forever  where  by 
right  it  belongs;  make  conquest  by  one  civilized  nation 
of  another  impossible  hereafter.  Yes,  when  it  is  stale 
mate,  when  it  is  proved  that  the  science  of  modern  de 
fence  has  made  the  weak  so  strong  that  superior  numbers 
cannot  play  the  bully,  then  shall  we  have  peace  in  prac 
tice!" 

"My  children's  prayer  and  Partow  in  the  same  gal 
lery!"  she  laughed  stonily.  "The  peace  of  armament, 


n4  THE  LAST  SHOT 

not  of  man's  superiority  to  the  tiger  and  the  tarantula! 
And  you  say  it  all  so  calmly.  You  picture  the  hell  of 
your  manufacture  as  coolly  as  if  it  were  some  fairies' 
dance!'' 

"  Should  I  be  enthusiastic?  Should  I  view  the  pros 
pect  with  an  old-fashioned  Hussar's  hurrah?"  he  asked. 
"The  right  way  is  without  illusions.  Let  us  lose  our 
heads,  cry  out  for  glory — and  then  chaos!" 

"The  heedless  barbarism  of  ignorance  intoxicated  with 
primitive  passion  versus  calculating,  refined,  intellectual, 
comprehending  barbarism!  I  see  no  choice,"  she  con 
cluded,  rising  slowly  in  the  utter  weariness  of  spirit  that 
calls  for  the  end  of  an  interview. 

"  Marta,  you  will  promise  not  to  remain  at  the  house?  " 
he  urged. 

"Isn't  that  my  affair?"  she  asked.  "Aren't  you  will 
ing  to  leave  even  that  to  me  after  all  you  have  been 
telling  how  you  are  to  make  a  redoubt  of  our  lawn,  in 
viting  the  shells  of  the  enemy  into  our  drawing-room?" 

What  could  he  say  in  face  of  a  hostility  so  resolute 
and  armed  with  the  conviction  of  its  logic?  Only  call 
up  from  the  depths  the  two  passions  of  his  life  in  an  out 
burst,  with  all  the  force  of  his  nature  in  play. 

"I  love  this  soil,  my  country's  soil,  ours  by  right — 
and  I  love  you!  I  would  be  true  to  both!" 

"Love!  What  mockery  to  mention  that  now!"  she 
cried  chokingly.  "It's  monstrous!" 

"I — I—  '  He  was  making  an  effort  to  keep  his  nerves 
under  control. 

This  time  the  stiffening  elbow  failed.  With  a  lurching 
abruptness  he  swung  his  right  hand  around  and  seized 
the  wrist  of  that  trembling,  injured  hand  that  would  not 
be  still.  She  could  not  fail  to  notice  the  movement,  and 
the  sight  was  a  magic  that  struck  anger  out  of  her. 

"Lanny,  I  am  hurting  you!"  she  cried  miserably. 

"A  little,"  he  said,  will  finally  dominant  over  its  ser 
vant,  and  he  was  smiling  as  when,  half  stunned  and  in 
agony — and  ashamed  of  the  fact — he  had  risen  from  the 


A  CRISIS  WITHIN  A  CRISIS  115 

debris  of  cloth  and  twisted  braces.  "It's  all  right,"  he 
concluded. 

She  threw  back  her  arms,  her  head  raised,  with  a  cer 
tain  abandon  as  if  she  would  bare  her  heart. 

"Lanny,  there  have  been  moments  when  I  would  have 
liked  to  fly  to  your  arms.  There  have  been  moments 
when  I  have  had  the  call  that  comes  to  every  woman  in 
answer  to  a  desire.  Yet  I  was  not  ready.  When  I  really 
go  it  must  be  in  a  flame,  in  answer  to  your  flame!" 

"You  mean— I— 

But  if  the  flame  were  about  to  burst  forth  she  smoth 
ered  it  in  the  spark. 

"And  all  this  has  upset  me,"  she  went  on  incoherently. 
"We've  both  been  cruel  without  meaning  to  be,  and 
we're  in  the  shadow  of  a  nightmare;  and  next  time  you 
come  perhaps  all  the  war  talk  will  be  over  and — oh,  this 
is  enough  for  to-day!" 

She  turned  quickly  in  veritable  flight  and  hurried 
toward  the  house.  At  the  bend  of  the  path  she  wheeled 
and  stood  facing  him,  a  hand  tossed  up  and  opening  and 
closing  as  if  she  had  caught  a  shaft  of  sunshine  and  let 
it  go  again.  Thus  she  would  wave  to  him  from  the 
veranda  as  he  came  up  the  terrace  steps.  Indelible  to 
him  this  picture,  radiant  of  a  versatile,  impressionable 
vitality,  of  capacities  yet  unsounded,  of  a  downright  sin 
cerity  of  impulses,  faiths,  and  ideals  which  might  buffet 
her  this  way  and  that  over  a  strange  course.  A  woman 
unafraid  of  destiny;  a  woman  too  objective  yet  to  know 
herself! 

"If  it  ever  comes,"  she  called,  "I'll  let  you  know! 
I'll  fly  to  you  in  a  chariot  of  fire  bearing  my  flame — I  am 
that  bold,  that  brazen,  that  reckless!  For  I  am  not  an 
old  maid  yet.  They've  moved  the  age  limit  up  to  thirty. 
But  you  can't  drill  love  into  me  as  you  drill  discipline 
into  armies — no,  no  more  than  I  can  argue  peace  into 
armies!" 

For  a  while,  motionless,  Lanstron  watched  the  point 
where  she  had  disappeared. 


n6  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"If  I  had  only  been  a  bridge-builder  or  an  engine- 
driver,"  he  thought;  "  anything  except  this  beastly— 

But  he  was  wool-gathering  again.  He  pulled  himself 
together  and  started  at  a  rapid  pace  for  the  tower,  where 
he  found  Feller  sitting  by  the  table,  one  leg  over  the 
other  easily,  engaged  in  the  prosaic  business  of  sewing  a 
button  on  his  blouse.  Lanstron  rapped ;  no  answer.  He 
beat  a  tattoo  on  the  casing;  no  answer. 

"Gustave!"  he  called;  no  answer. 

Now  he  entered  and  touched  Feller's  shoulder. 

"Hello,  Lanny!"  exclaimed  Feller,  rising  and  setting 
a  chair  and  breaking  into  a  stream  of  talk.  "That's 
the  way  they  all  have  to  do  when  they  want  to  attract 
my  attention.  I  heard  your  voice  and  Miss  Galland's — 
having  an  argument  in  the  garden,  I  should  say.  Then  I 
heard  your  step.  Since  I  became  deaf  my  sense  of  hear 
ing  has  really  grown  keener,  just  as  the  blind  develop 
a  keener  sense  of  feeling.  Eh?  eh?"  He  cupped  his 
hand  over  his  ear  in  the  unctuous  enjoyment  of  his  gift 
of  acting.  "Yes,  Colonel  Lanstron,  would  you  like  to 
know  what  a  perfect  triumph  we're  going  to  pull  off  in 
irises  next  season — but,  Lanny,  you  seem  in  a  hurry!" 

"  Gustave,  I  am  ordered  to  headquarters  by  the  night 
express  and  I  came  to  tell  you  that  I  think  it  means 
war." 

"War!  war!"  Feller  shouted.  "Ye  gods  and  little 
fishes!"  In  riotous  glee  he  seized  a  chair  and  flung  it 
across  the  room.  "Ye  salty,  whiskery  gods  and  ye 
shiny-eyed  little  fishes!  War,  do  you  hear  that,  you 
plebeian  trousers  of  the  deaf  gardener?  War!"  Fling 
ing  the  trousers  after  the  chair,  he  executed  a  few  steps. 
When  he  had  thus  tempered  his  elation,  he  grasped  Lan- 
stron's  arm  and,  looking  into  his  eyes  with  feverish 
resolution  and  hope,  said:  "Oh,  don't  fear!  I'll  pull  it 
off.  And  then  I  shall  have  paid  back — yes,  paid  back! 
I  shall  be  a  man  who  can  look  men  in  the  face  again. 
I  need  not  slink  to  the  other  side  of  the  street  when  I 
see  an  old  friend  coming  for  fear  that  he  will  recognize 


A  CRISIS  WITHIN  A  CRISIS  117 

me.  Yes,  I  could  even  dare  to  love  a  woman  of  my  own 
world!  And — and  perhaps  the  uniform  and  the  guns 
once  more!" 

"You  may  be  sure  of  that.  Partow  cannot  refuse," 
said  Lanstron,  deeply  affected.  After  a  pause  he  added: 
"But  I  must  tell  you,  Gustave,  that  Miss  Galland, 
though  she  is  willing  that  you  remain  as  a  gardener,  has 
not  yet  consented  to  our  plan.  She  will  make  no  de 
cision  until  war  comes.  Perhaps  she  will  refuse.  It  is 
only  fair  that  you  should  know  this." 

For  an  instant  Feller  was  downcast;  then  confidence 
returned  at  high  pitch. 

"Trust  me!"  he  said.     "I  shall  persuade  her!" 

"I  hope  you  can.  It  is  a  chance  that  might  turn  the 
scales  of  victory — a  chance  that  hangs  in  my  mind  stub 
bornly,  as  if  there  were  some  fate  in  it.  Luck,  old  boy ! " 

"Luck  to  you,  Lanny!    Luck  and  promotion!" 

They  threw  their  arms  about  each  other  in  a  vigorous 
embrace. 

"And  you  will  keep  watch  that  Mrs.  Galland  and 
Marta  are  in  no  danger?" 

"Trust  me  for  that,  too!" 

"Then,  good-by  till  I  hear  from  you  over  the  'phone 
or  I  return  to  see  you  after  the  crisis  is  over!"  concluded 
Lanstron  as  he  hurried  away. 


XIII 
BREAKING  A  PAPER-KNIFE 

HEDWORTH  WESTERLING  would  have  said  twenty  to 
one  if  he  had  been  asked  the  odds  against  war  when  he 
was  parting  from  Marta  Galland  in  the  hotel  reception- 
room.  Before  he  reached  home  he  would  have  changed 
them  to  ten  to  one.  A  scare  bulletin  about  the  Bodlapoo 
affair  compelling  attention  as  his  car  halted  to  let  the 
traffic  of  a  cross  street  pass,  he  bought  a  newspaper 
thrust  in  at  the  car  window  that  contained  the  answer 
of  the  government  of  the  Browns  to  a  despatch  of  the 
Grays  about  the  dispute  that  had  arisen  in  the  distant 
African  jungle.  This  he  had  already  read  two  days 
previously,  by  courtesy  of  the  premier.  It  was  moderate 
in  tone,  as  became  a  power  that  had  three  million  soldiers 
against  its  opponent's  five;  nevertheless,  it  firmly  pointed 
out  that  the  territory  of  the  Browns  had  been  overtly 
invaded,  on  the  pretext  of  securing  a  deserter  who  had 
escaped  across  the  line,  by  Gray  colonial  troops  who  had 
raised  the  Gray  flag  in  place  of  the  Brown  flag  and  re 
mained  defiantly  in  occupation  of  the  outpost  they  had 
taken. 

As  yet,  the  Browns  had  not  attempted  to  repel  the  ag 
gressor  by  arms  for  fear  of  complications,  but  were  re 
lying  on  the  Gray  government  to  order  a  withdrawal  of 
the  Gray  force  and  the  repudiation  of  a  commander  who 
had  been  guilty  of  so  grave  an  international  affront. 
The  surprising  and  illuminating  thing  to  Westerling  was 
the  inspired  statement  to  the  press  from  the  Gray 
Foreign  Office,  adroitly  appealing  to  Gray  chauvinism 

118 


BREAKING  A  PAPER-KNIFE  119 

and  justifying  the  "  intrepidity  "  of  the  Gray  commander 
in  response  to  so-called  " pin-pricking"  exasperations. 

At  the  door  of  his  apartment,  Francois,  his  valet  and 
factotum,  gave  Westerling  a  letter. 

"  Important,  sir,"  said  Francois. 

Westerling  knew  by  a  glance  that  it  was,  for  it  was 
addressed  and  marked  "Personal"  in  the  premier's  own 
handwriting.  A  conference  for  ten  that  evening  was 
requested  in  a  manner  that  left  no  doubt  of  its  urgency. 

"Let  me  see,  do  I  dine  at  the  Countess  Zalinski's  to 
night?"  asked  Westerling.  Both  Francois  and  his 
personal  aide  kept  a  list  of  his  appointments. 

"Not  to-night,  sir.     To-night  you —  "  said  Francois. 

"Good!"  thought  Westerling.  "No  excuses  will  be 
necessary  to  Marie  in  order  to  be  at  the  premier's  by 
ten." 

Curiosity  made  him  a  little  ahead  of  time,  but  he 
found  the  premier  awaiting  him  in  his  study,  free  from 
interruption  or  eavesdropping. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  table  lamp  the  old  premier 
looked  his  years.  His  definite  features  were  easy  ma 
terial  for  the  caricaturist,  who  does  not  deal  in  half 
tones.  A  near  view  of  them  was  not  attractive.  They 
had  the  largeness  which  impresses  the  gallery  from  the 
floor  of  a  parliamentary  chamber,  where  delicate  lines 
of  sensibility  and  character  lack  the  quality  which  the 
actor  supplies  with  his  make-up.  As  is  often  the  case 
with  elderly  statesmen,  his  face  seemed  like  that  of  the 
crowd  done  boldly  as  a  single  face,  while  his  shrewd  eyes 
in  a  bed  of  crow's-feet,  when  they  lighted  to  their  pur 
pose  in  confidence,  expressed  his  understanding  of  the 
crowd  and  its  thoughts  and  how  it  may  be  led. 

From  youth  he  had  been  in  politics,  ever  a  bold  figure 
and  a  daring  player,  but  now  beginning  to  feel  the  pres 
sure  of  younger  men's  elbows.  Fonder  even  of  power, 
which  had  become  a  habit,  than  in  his  twenties,  he  saw 
it  slipping  from  his  grasp  at  an  age  when  the  downfall 
of  his  government  meant  that  he  should  never  hold  the 


120  THE  LAST  SHOT 

reins  again.  He  had  been  called  an  ambitious  dem 
agogue  and  a  makeshift  opportunist  by  his  enemies, 
but  the  crowd  liked  him  for  his  ready  strategy,  his 
genius  for  appealing  phrases,  and  for  the  gambler's  vir 
tue  which  hitherto  had  made  him  a  good  loser. 

"You  saw  our  communique  to-night  that  went  with 
the  publication  of  the  Browns'  despatch?"  he  remarked. 

"Yes,  and  I  was  glad  that  I  had  been  careful  to  send 
a  spirited  commander  to  that  region,"  Westerling  re 
plied. 

"So  you  guess  my  intention,  I  see."  The  premier 
smiled.  He  picked  up  a  long,  thin  [ivory  paper-knife 
and  softly  patted  the  palm  of  his  hand  with  it.  "We 
have  had  many  discussions,  you  and  I,  Westerling,"  he 
said.  "But  to-night  I'm  going  to  ask  categorical  ques 
tions.  They  may  take  us  over  old  ground,  but  they  are 
the  questions  of  the  nation  to  the  army." 

"Certainly!"  Westerling  replied  in  his  ready,  con 
fident  manner. 

"We  hear  a  great  deal  about  the  precision  and  power 
of  modern  arms  as  favoring  the  defensive,"  said  the 
premier.  "I  have  read  somewhere  that  it  will  enable 
the  Browns  to  hold  us  back,  despite  our  advantage  of 
numbers.  Also,  that  they  can  completely  man  every 
part  of  their  frontier  and  that  their  ability"  to  move 
their  reserves  rapidly,  thanks  to  modern  facilities,  makes 
a  powerful  flanking  attack  in  surprise  out  of  the  question." 

"Some  half-truths  in  that,"  answered  Westerling. 
"One  axiom,  that  must  hold  good  through  all  time,  is 
that  the  aggressive  which  keeps  at  it  always  wins.  We 
take  the  aggressive.  In  the  space  where  Napoleon  de 
ployed  a  division,  we  deploy  a  battalion  to-day.  The 
precision  and  power  of  modern  arms  require  this.  With 
such  immense  forces  and  present-day  tactics,  the  line 
of  battle  will  practically  cover  the  length  of  the  frontier. 
Along  their  range  the  Browns  have  a  series  of  fortresses 
commanding  natural  openings  for  our  attack.  These 
are  almost  impregnable.  But  there  are  pregnable  points 


BREAKING  A  PAPER-KNIFE  121 

between  them.  Here,  our  method  will  be  the  same  that 
the  Japanese  followed  and  that  they  learned  from  Eu 
ropean  armies.  We  shall  concentrate  in  masses  and 
throw  in  wave  after  wave  of  attack  until  we  have  gained 
the  positions  we  desire.  Once  we  have  a  tenable  foot 
hold  on  the  crest  of  the  range  the  Brown  army  must  fall 
back  and  the  rest  will  be  a  matter  of  skilful  pursuit." 

The  premier,  as  he  listened,  rolled  the  paper-knife 
over  and  over,  regarding  its  polished  sides,  which  were 
like  Westerling's  manner  of  facile  statement  of  a  pro 
gramme  certain  of  fulfilment. 

"We  can  win,  then?  We  can  go  to  their  capital,  or 
far  enough  to  force  a  great  indemnity,  the  annexation 
of  one  of  their  provinces,  perhaps,  and  the  taking  over 
of  their  African  colonies,  which  we  can  develop  so  much 
better  than  they?" 

Westerling  took  care  to  show  none  of  the  eagerness 
which  had  set  his  pulses  humming. 

"To  their  capital!"  he  declared  decisively.  "Noth 
ing  less.  For  that  I  have  planned." 

"And  the  cost  in  lives?" 

"Five  or  six  hundred  thousand  casualties,  which  means 
about  a  hundred  thousand  killed." 

"Ghastly!    The  population  of  a  good-sized  city!" 
exclaimed  the  premier. 

"A  small  percentage  out  of  five  million  soldiers;  a 
smaller  out  of  eighty  million  population,"  Westerling  re 
turned. 

"And  how  long  do  you  think  the  war  would  last? 
How  long  the  strain  on  our  finances,  the  suspense  to  the 
markets?" 

"About  a  month.  We  shall  go  swiftly.  The  com 
pleteness  of  modern  preparation  must  make  a  war  of 
to-day  brief  between  two  great  powers.  We  must  win 
with  a  rush,  giving  the  defenders  no  breathing  spell, 
pouring  masses  after  masses  upon  the  critical  positions." 

"How  long  will  it  take  to  mobilize?" 

"Less  than  a  week  after  the  railroads  are  put  entirely 


122  THE  LAST  SHOT 

at  our  service,  with  three  preceding  days  of  scattered 
movements,"  answered  Westerling.  "  Deliberate  mobili 
zations  are  all  right  for  a  diplomatic  threat  that  creates 
a  furore  in  the  newspapers  and  a  depression  in  the  stock- 
market,  but  which  is  not  to  be  carried  out.  When  you 
mean  war,  all  speed  and  the  war  fever  at  white  heat." 

"  Therefore,  there  would  be  little  time  for  the  public 
to  hoard  money  or  to  provoke  a  panic.  The  govern 
ment,  knowing  precisely  what  was  before  it,  could  take 
severe  preventive  measures." 

"But  I  may  say  that  we  should  strike  before  mobili 
zation  is  complete.  A  day  will  be  required  to  take 
the  La  Tir  tangent  and  other  outlying  positions.  The 
1 28th  and  other  regiments  who  will  do  this  work  are 
already  at  the  front.  They  were  chosen  because  they 
came  from  distant  provinces  and  we  can  count  on  their 
patriotic  fervor  for  brilliant  and  speedy  action,  with  re 
sulting  general  enthusiasm  for  the  whole  army,  which 
will  be  up  in  time  for  the  assault  on  the  Browns'  perma 
nent  defences." 

"You  would  have  made  a  good  politician,  Wester- 
ling,"  the  premier  remarked,  with  a  twitching  uplift  of 
the  brows  and  a  knowing  gleam  in  his  shrewd  old  eyes. 

"Thank  you,"  replied  Westerling,  appearing  flattered, 
though  secretly  annoyed  that  any  one  should  think  that 
a  chief  of  staff  could  care  to  change  places  with  any  man 
in  the  world.  Governments  might  come  and  go,  but  the 
army  was  the  rock  in  the  midst  of  the  play  of  minor 
forces,  the  ultimate  head  of  order  and  power.  "A  man 
who  is  able  to  lead  in  anything  must  be  something  of  a 
politician,"  he  said  suavely. 

"Very  true,  indeed.  Perhaps  I  had  that  partly  in 
mind  in  making  you  vice-chief  of  staff,"  responded  the 
premier  enjoyably.  "You  spoke  of  the  war  fever  at 
white  heat,"  he  went  on,  returning  to  his  muttons,  "and 
of  the  army's  enthusiasm  for  its  work.  There  we  come 
to  the  kernel  in  the  nut,  eh?"  he  asked,  as  he  prodded 
the  paper-knife  into  the  palm  of  his  hand. 


BREAKING  A  PAPER-KNIFE  123 

"  Drill,  organization,  discipline,  and  centralized  au 
thority  and  a  high-spirited  aristocracy  of  officers  are 
most  important,"  said  Westerling.  "But  after  that  come 
morale  and  the  psychology  of  the  soldier."  There  he 
shrugged  slightly,  in  indication  of  a  resentment  at  the 
handicap  of  human  nature  in  his  work.  "The  business 
of  a  soldier  is  to  risk  death  in  the  way  he  is  told.  The 
keener  he  is  for  his  cause  the  better.  An  ideal  soldier  is 
he  who  does  not  think  for  himself,  but  observes  every 
detail  of  training  and  will  not  stop  until  halted  by  orders 
or  a  bullet.  Therefore  we  want  the  army  hot  with  de 
sire.  The  officers  of  a  company  cannot  force  their  men 
forward.  Without  insubordination  or  mutiny  the  men 
may  stop  from  lack  of  interest  after  only  a  very  small 
percentage  of  loss." 

"Lack  of  interest!"  mused  the  premier.  But  Wester- 
ling,  preoccupied  with  the  literal  exposition  of  his  sub 
ject,  did  not  catch  the  flash  of  passing  satire  before  the 
premier,  his  features  growing  hard  and  challenging, 
spoke  in  another  strain:  "Then  it  all  goes  back  to  the 
public — to  that  enormous  body  of  humanity  out  there!" 
He  swung  the  paper-knife  around  with  outstretched  arm 
toward  the  walls  of  the  room.  "To  public  opinion — as 
does  everything  else  in  this  age — to  the  people!  I  have 
seen  them  pressing  close,  about  to  remove  me  from  power, 
and  I  have  started  a  diversion  which  made  them  forget 
the  object  of  their  displeasure.  I  have  thought  them 
won  one  day,  and  the  next  I  realized  that  they  were 
going  against  me.  Thank  Heaven  for  the  brevity  of 
their  memory,  or  we  leaders  would  be  hung  high  by  our 
own  inconsistencies!  He  who  leads  sees  which  way  they 
will  go,  rushes  to  the  head  of  the  procession,  discovers 
them  to  themselves  and  turns  a  corner  and  they  follow, 
thinking  that  they  are  going  straight  to  the  point.  But 
always  they  are  there,  never  older,  never  younger,  never 
tiring — there,  smiling  or  scowling  or  forgetting  all  about 
you,  only  to  have  a  sudden  fierce  reminder  overnight  to 
surprise  you — and  our  masters,  yours  and  mine!  For 


i24  THE  LAST  SHOT 

no  man  can  stand  against  them  when  they  say  no  or 
yes." 

"You  know  the  keys  to  play  on,  though,"  remarked 
Westerling  with  a  complimentary  smile.  ' '  No  one  knows 
quite  so  well." 

"I  ought  to,"  replied  the  premier.  "That  was  the 
purpose  of  the  semi-official  communique  about  Bodla- 
poo,  which,  of  course,  we  can  repudiate  later,  if  need  be. 
I  saw  that  the  brilliant  forced  march  of  our  commander 
had  excited  popular  enthusiasm.  It  does  not  matter 
if  he  were  in  the  wrong.  Will  race  feeling  rise  to  the 
pitch  of  war  from  this  touchstone  with  the  proper  urging? 
Of  course,  the  impulse  must  come  from  the  people  them 
selves.  We  must  seem  to  resist  it,  the  better  to  arouse 
it."  He  bent  the  paper-knife  into  a  bow  with  fingers 
that  were  rigid.  "Times  are  hard,  factions  are  bitter, 
our  cabinet  is  in  danger,  with  economic  and  political 
chaos  from  overpopulation  in  sight,"  he  continued. 
"We  hunger  for  land,  for  fresh  opportunities  for  develop 
ment.  An  outburst  of  patriotism,  concentrating  every 
thought  of  the  nation  on  war! — is  that  the  way  out?" 

Westerling  had  only  answered  questions  so  far.  Here 
was  his  cue  for  argument. 

"We  were  never  so  ready,"  he  said.  "War  must 
come  some  time.  We  should  choose  the  moment,  not 
leave  it  to  chance.  The  nation  needs  war  as  a  stimulant, 
as  a  corrective,  as  a  physician.  We  grow  stale;  we  think 
of  our  domestic  troubles.  The  old  racial  passions  are 
weakening  and  with  them  our  virility.  Victory  will 
make  room  for  millions  in  the  place  of  the  thousands 
who  fall.  The  indemnity  will  bring  prosperity.  Be 
cause  we  have  had  no  war,  because  the  long  peace  has 
been  abnormal,  is  the  reason  you  have  all  this  agitation 
and  all  these  strikes.  They  will  be  at  an  end.  Those 
who  are  fit  to  rule  will  be  in  power." 

"And  you  are  sure — sure  we  can  win?"  the  premier 
asked  with  a  long,  tense  look  at  Westerling,  who  was 
steady  under  the  scrutiny. 


BREAKING  A  PAPER-KNIFE  125 

"Absolutely!"  he  answered.  "Five  millions  against 
three!  It's  mathematics,  or  our  courage  and  skill  are 
not  equal  to  theirs.  Absolutely!  We  have  the  power, 
why  not  use  it?  We  do  not  live  in  a  dream  age!" 

The  premier  sank  deeper  in  his  chair.  He  was  silent, 
thinking.  He  who  had  carried  off  so  many  great  coups 
with  rare  ease  was  on  the  threshold  of  one  that  made 
them  all  seem  petty.  He  had  heard  random  talk  that 
some  of  the  officers  of  the  staff  considered  Westerling 
to  be  lath  painted  to  look  like  steel.  There  was  a  re 
ported  remark  by  Turcas,  his  assistant,  implying  that 
the  ability  to  achieve  a  position  did  not  mean  the  ability 
to  fill  it.  Jealousy,  no  doubt;  the  jealousy  of  rivals! 
The  premier  himself  was  used  to  having  members  of  his 
own  cabinet  ever  on  the  watch  for  the  vulnerable  spot 
in  his  back,  which  he  had  never  allowed  them  to  find. 
Yet,  there  was  the  case  of  Louis  Napoleon.  He  had  the 
ability  to  achieve  a  position;  he  had  been  the  lath 
painted  to  look  like  steel.  He  had  all  the  externals 
which  the  layman  associates  with  victory  until  he  went 
to  the  supreme  test,  which  ripped  him  into  slivers  of 
rotten  wood.  The  little  Napoleon  had  been  one  of  the 
premier's  favorite  bugaboo  examples  of  stage  realism 
tried  out  in  real  life.  But  it  was  ridiculous  to  compare 
him  with  the  stalwart  figure  sitting  across  the  table, 
who  had  spoken  the  language  of  materialism  without 
illusion. 

Westerling's  ambition  on  edge  communicated  itself  to 
the  premier,  whose  soft  hands,  long  since  divorced  from 
any  labor  except  official  hand-shaking  and  the  exercise 
of  authority,  were  bending  the  paper-knife  with  uncon 
scious  vigor. 

"All  the  achievements  of  power  form  only  a  dull 
background  for  victory  in  war  to  a  people's  imagina 
tion!"  he  exclaimed.  "Your  name  and  mine  to  sym 
bolize  an  age!  What  power  for  us!  What  power  for 
the  nation!" 

From  a  sudden,  unwitting  exertion  of  his  strength  the 


126  THE  LAST  SHOT 

knife  which  had  been  the  recipient  of  his  emotions 
snapped  in  two.  Rather  carefully  he  laid  the  pieces  on 
the  table  before  he  rose  and  turned  to  Westerling,  his 
decision  made. 

"If  the  people  respond  with  the  war  fever,  then  it  is 
war!"  he  said.  "I  take  you  at  your  word  that  you  will 
win!" 

Westerling' s  chair  creaked  with  the  tense  drawing  of 
his  muscles  in  the  impulse  of  delight.  He  had  gained 
the  great  purpose;  but  there  was  another  and  vital  one 
on  his  programme. 

"A  condition!"  he  announced.  "From  the  moment 
war  begins  the  army  is  master  of  all  intelligence,  all 
communication,  all  resources.  Everything  we  require 
goes  into  the  crucible!" 

"And  the  press — the  mischievous,  greedy,  but  very 
useful  press?"  asked  the  premier. 

"It  also  shall  serve;  also  obey.  No  lists  of  killed  and 
wounded  shall  be  given  out  until  I  am  ready.  The 
public  must  know  nothing  except  what  I  choose  to  tell. 
I  act  for  the  people  and  the  nation." 

"That  is  agreed,"  said  the  premier.  "For  these  ter 
rible  weeks  every  nerve  and  muscle  of  the  nation  is  at 
your  service  to  win  for  the  nation.  In  three  or  four 
days  I  shall  know  if  the  public  rises  to  the  call.  If 
not—  He  shook  his  head. 

"While  all  the  information  given  out  is  provocative 
to  our  people,  you  will  declare  your  hope  that  war  may 
be  averted,"  Westerling  continued.  "This  will  screen 
our  purpose.  Finally,  on  top  of  public  enthusiasm  will 
come  the  word  that  the  Browns  have  fired  the  first  shot — 
as  they  must  when  we  cross  the  frontier — that  they  have 
been  killing  our  soldiers.  This  will  make  the  racial 
spirit  of  every  man  respond.  Having  decided  for  war, 
every  plan  is  worthy  that  helps  to  victory." 

"It  seems  fiendish!"  exclaimed  the  premier  in  answer 
to  a  thought  eddying  in  the  powerful  current  of  his  brain. 
"Fiendish  with  calculation,  but  merciful,  as  you  say." 


BREAKING  A  PAPER-KNIFE  127 

"A  fast,  terrific  campaign!  A  ready  machine  taking 
the  road!"  Westerling  declared.  "Less  suffering  than 
if  we  went  to  war  carelessly  for  a  long  campaign — than 
if  we  allowed  sentiment  to  interfere  with  intellect." 

"I  like  your  energy,  your  will!"  said  the  premier  ad 
miringly.  "And  about  the  declaration  of  war?  We 
shall  time  that  to  your  purpose." 

"Declarations  of  war  before  striking,  by  nations  taking 
the  aggressive,  are  a  disadvantage,"  Westerling  ex 
plained.  "They  are  going  out  of  practice.  Witness  the 
examples  of  Japan  against  Russia  and  the  Balkan  allies 
against  Turkey.  In  these  days  declarations  are  not 
necessary  as  a  warning  of  what  is  going  to  happen. 
They  belong  to  the  etiquette  of  fencers." 

"Yes,  exactly.  The  declaration  of  war  and  the  am 
bassador's  passports  will  be  prepared  and  the  wire  that 
fighting  has  begun  will  release  them,"  agreed  the  pre 
mier.  "Another  thing,"  he  added,  "there  is  the  ques 
tion  of  the  opinion  of  the  world  as  represented  by  The 
Hague  and  the  peace  societies.  This  government  has 
always  expressed  sympathy  with  their  ideas." 

' '  Naturally, ' '  Westerling  put  in .  "  We  shall  use  hand- 
grenades,  explosives  from  dirigibles,  every  known  power 
of  destruction.  So  will  the  Browns,  you  may  be  sure. 
In  such  a  cataclysm  we  shall  have  no  time  for  niceties. 
The  peace  societies  will  have  hardly  formulated  their 
protests  to  The  Hague  before  the  war  is  over.  Our 
answer  will  be  our  victory — the  power  that  goes  with 
the  prestige  of  unconquerable  force.  Victory,  nothing 
but  victory  counts!" 

Westerling  was  speaking  by  the  book,  expressing  the 
ideas  that  he  had  again  and  again  rehearsed  as  a  part  of 
the  preparation,  the  eternal  preparation  for  the  sudden 
emergency  of  war,  which  is  the  duty  of  the  staff.  So  let 
ter-perfect  was  he  in  his  lines  that  a  layman  might  have 
scouted  his  realization  of  the  enormousness  of  his  re 
sponsibility. 

"Yet  if  we  did  lose!    If  when  I  had  given  you  all  you 


128  THE  LAST  SHOT 

ask  your  plans  went  wrong!  If  our  army  were  broken 
to  pieces  on  the  frontier  and  then  the  nation,  kept  in 
ignorance  of  events,  learned  the  truth" — the  premier 
enunciated  slowly  and  pointedly  while  he  locked  glances 
with  Westerling — "that  is  the  end  for  us  both.  You 
would  hardly  want  to  return  to  the  capital  to  face  public 
wrath!" 

"We  must  win  though  we  lose  a  million  men!"  he 
answered.  "I  stake  my  life ! "  he  cried  hoarsely,  striking 
his  fist  on  the  table. 

"You  stake  your  life!"  repeated  the  premier  with 
slow  emphasis. 

"Bravado  hardly  becomes  a  chief  of  staff.  His  place 
is  not  under  fire,"  Westerling  explained.  "However, 
I  mean  to  make  my  headquarters  at  La  Tir,  imme 
diately  we  have  taken  it,  for  the  effect  of  having  the 
leader  of  the  army  promptly  established  on  conquered 
territory." 

"I  understand  that,"  replied  the  premier.  "But 
still  you  stake  your  life?  That  is  the  greatest  thing  a 
man  has  to  stake.  You  stake  your  life  on  victory?"  he 
demanded  fiercely. 

"I  do!"  said  Westerling.  "Yes,  my  life.  We  can 
not  fail!" 

"Then  it  will  be  war,  if  the  people  want  it!"  said  the 
premier.  "I  shall  not  resist  their  desire!"  he  added  in 
his  official  manner,  at  peace  with  his  conscience. 


XIV 
IN  PARTOW'S  OFFICE 

PARTOW  was  a  great  brain  set  on  an  enormous  body. 
Partow's  eyes  had  the  fire  of  youth  at  sixty-five,  but  the 
pendulous  flesh  of  his  cheeks  was  pasty.  Partow  was 
picturesque;  he  was  a  personality  with  a  dome  forehead 
sweeping  back  nobly  to  scattered  and  contentious,  short 
gray  hairs.  Jealousy  and  faction  had  endeavored  for 
years  to  remove  him  from  his  position  at  the  head  of  the 
army  on  account  of  age.  New  governments  decided  as 
they  came  in  that  he  must  go,  and  they  went  out  with 
him  still  in  the  saddle.  He  worked  fourteen  hours  a 
day,  took  no  holidays  and  little  exercise,  violated  the 
rules  of  health,  and  never  appeared  at  gold-braid  func 
tions.  The  business  of  official  display,  as  he  said  pun- 
gently,  he  delegated  to  that  specialist,  his  handsome  vice- 
chief  of  staff. 

He  had  set  up  no  silhouette  of  a  charging  soldier 
peppered  with  bullet  marks  on  the  wall  of  his  office,  for 
this  was  a  picture  that  he  carried  in  his  mind.  Perti 
nent  to  his  own  taste,  under  the  glance  of  the  portraits 
of  the  old  heroes,  was  a  little  statuette  of  a  harvester 
called  Toil  on  his  desk. 

"  That's  the  fellow  we're  defending,"  he  would  say, 
becoming  almost  rhapsodical.  "I  like  to  think  back  to 
him.  He's  the  infantry  before  you  put  him  in  uni 
form." 

Let  officers  apply  themselves  with  conspicuous  energy 
and  they  heard  from  a  genial  Partow;  let  officers  only 
keep  step  and  free  of  courts  martial,  and  they  heard 

I2Q 


i3o  THE  LAST  SHOT 

from  a  merciless  taskmaster.  Resign,  please,  if  you  like 
a  leisurely  life,  he  told  the  idlers;  and  he  had  a  way  of 
making  them  so  uncomfortable  that  they  would  take  the 
advice.  Among  the  sons  of  rest  who  had  retired  to 
mourn  over  the  world  going  to  the  devil  he  was  referred 
to  as  not  being  a  gentleman,  which  amused  him;  some 
said  that  he  was  crazy,  which  amused  him  even  more. 

Peculiarly  human,  peculiarly  dictatorial,  dynamic,  and 
inscrutable  was  Partow,  who  never  asked  any  one  under 
him  to  work  harder  than  himself. 

Lanstron  appeared  in  the  presence  of  Jove  shortly 
after  eight  o'clock  the  next  morning  after  he  left  La  Tir. 
Jove  rolled  his  big  head  on  his  short  neck  in  a  nod  and 
said: 

"Late!" 

"The  train  was  late,  sir!" 

"And  you  have  disobeyed  orders!"  grumbled  Partow. 

"Disobeyed  orders?    How,  sir?" 

"And  you  look  me  in  the  eye  as  you  always  do!  You 
think  that  excuses  you,  perhaps?" 

"No,  sir.     But  I  am  bound  to  ask  what  orders?" 

"Well,  not  orders,  but  my  instructions;  at  least,  my 
desire.  Flying  yourself — directing  a  manoeuvre — racing 
the  Grays!" 

"You  heard  about  it?" 

"I  hear  about  everything!  I  have  told  you  not  to 
risk  your  life.  Lives  are  assets  of  various  kinds  in  an 
army.  It  is  my  business  to  determine  the  relative  value 
of  those  of  my  subordinates.  You  are  not  to  sacrifice 
yours." 

"I  haven't  yet,  sir.  I  have  it  with  me  this  morning," 
Lanstron  replied,  "and  I  have  some  news  about  our 
thousandth  chance." 

"Hm-m!  What  is  it?"  asked  Partow.  When  Lan 
stron  had  told  the  story,,  Partow  worked  his  lips  in  a 
way  he  had  if  he  were  struck  by  a  passing  reflection 
which  might  or  might  not  have  a  connection  with  the 
subject  in  hand.  "Strange  about  her  when  you  consider 


IN  PARTOW'S  OFFICE  131 

who  her  parents  were!"  he  said.  "But  you  never  know. 
His  son,"  nodding  to  Toil,  "  might  be  a  great  painter  or 
a  snob.  Miss  Galland  has  an  idea — that's  something — 
and  character  and  a  brain  making  arrows  so  fast  that 
she  shoots  them  into  the  blue  just  for  mental  relief. 
She's  quite  a  woman.  If  I  were  thirty,  and  single,  I 
believe  I'd  fall  in  love  with  her.  But  don't  you  dare 
tell  Mrs.  Partow.  I  want  the  fun  of  telling  her  myself. 
Hm-m!  Why  don't  you  sit  down,  young  man?" 

Partow  turned  his  thick,  white  palm  toward  a  chair, 
and  his  smile,  now  clearly  showing  that  he  was  not 
deeply  offended  with  Lanstron's  insubordination,  had 
a  singular  charm.  The  smile  vanished  as  Lanstron 
seated  himself  and  in  its  place  came  such  a  look  as  friend 
Toil  had  seen  on  very  rare  occasions. 

"The  way  that  the  Grays  gave  out  our  despatch  con 
vinces  me  of  their  intentions,"  Partow  said.  "Their 
people  are  rising  to  it  and  ours  are  rising  in  answer. 
The  Grays  have  been  transferring  regiments  from  dis 
tant  provinces  to  their  frontier  because  they  will  fight 
better  in  an  invasion.  We  are  transferring  home  regi 
ments  to  our  frontier  because  they  will  fight  for  their 
own  property.  By  Thursday  you  will  find  that  open 
mobilization  on  both  sides  has  begun." 

"My  department  is  ready,"  said  Lanstron,  "all  ex 
cept  your  decision  about  press  censorship." 

"A  troublesome  point,"  responded  Partow.  "I  have 
procrastinated  because  two  definite  plans  were  fully 
worked  out.  It  is  a  matter  of  choice  between  them: 
either  publicity  or  complete  secrecy.  You  know  I  am 
no  believer  in  riding  two  horses  at  once.  My  mind  is 
about  made  up;  but  let  me  hear  your  side  again.  Some 
times  I  get  conviction  by  probing  another  man's." 

Lanstron  was  at  his  best,  for  his  own  conviction  was 
intense. 

"Of  course  they  will  go  in  for  secrecy;  but  our  case  is 
different,"  he  began. 

Partow  settled  himself  to  listen  with  the  gift  of  the 


i32  THE  LAST  SHOT 

organizer  who  draws  from  his  informant  the  brevity  of 
essentials. 

"I  should  take  the  people  into  our  confidence,"  Lan- 
stron  proceeded.  "I  should  make  them  feel  that  we 
were  one  family  fighting  for  all  we  hold  dear  against  the 
invader.  If  our  losses  are  heavy,  if  we  have  a  setback, 
then  the  inspiration  of  the  heroism  of  those  who  have 
fallen  and  the  danger  of  their  own  homes  feeling  the 
foot  of  the  invader  next  will  impel  the  living  to  greater 
sacrifices.  For  the  Grays  are  in  the  wrong.  The  moral 
and  the  legal  right  is  with  us." 

"And  the  duty  of  men  like  you  and  me,  chosen  for 
the  purpose,"  said  Partow,  "is  worthily  to  direct  the 
courage  that  goes  with  moral  right.  The  overt  act  of 
war  must  come  from  them  by  violating  our  frontier, 
not  in  the  African  jungle  but  here.  Even  when  the 
burglar  fingers  the  window-sash  we  shall  not  fire — no, 
not  until  he  enters  our  house.  When  he  does,  you  would 
have  a  message  go  out  to  our  people  that  will  set  them 
quivering  with  indignation?" 

"Yes,  and  I  would  let  the  names  of  our  soldiers  who 
fall  first  be  known  and  how  they  fell,  their  backs  to  their 
frontier  homes  and  their  faces  to  the  foe." 

"Our  very  liberality  in  giving  news  will  help  us  to 
cover  the  military  secrets  which  we  desire  to  preserve," 
Partow  said,  with  slow  emphasis.  "We  shall  hold  back 
what  we  please,  confident  of  the  people's  trust.  Good 
policy  that,  yes!  But  enough!  Your  orders  are  ready, 
in  detail,  I  believe.  You  have  nothing  to  add?" 

"No,  sir,  nothing;  at  least,  not  until  war  begins." 

"Very  well.  We  shall  have  the  orders  issued  at  the 
proper  moment,"  concluded  Partow.  "And  Westerling 
is  going  to  find,"  he  proceeded  after  a  thoughtful  pause, 
"that  a  man  is  readier  to  die  fighting  to  hold  his  own 
threshold  than  fighting  to  take  another  man's.  War  is 
not  yet  solely  an  affair  of  machinery  and  numbers.  The 
human  element  is  still  uppermost.  I  know  something, 
perhaps,  that  Westerling  does  not  know,  I  have  had 


IN  PARTOW'S  OFFICE  133 

an  experience  that  he  has  not  had  and  that  few  active 
officers  of  either  army  have  had — I  have  been  under 
fire." 

His  eyes  flashed  with  the  memory  of  his  charge,  and 
visions  of  the  day  when  Grandfather  Fragini  was  a  beau 
sabreur  and  Marta  Galland's  father  toasted  quick  death 
and  speedy  promotion  seemed  to  cluster  around  him. 

"  Experience  plus  an  old  man's  honest  effort  for  a 
mind  open  to  all  suggestion  and  improvements!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "An  open  mind  that  let  you  have  your  way 
in  equipping  more  dirigibles  and  planes  than  Wester- 
ling  guesses  we  have,  eh?  And,  perhaps,  a  few  more 
guns!  And  you,  too,  have  been  under  fire,"  he  added. 
"Give  me  your  hand — no,  not  that  one,  not  the  one  you 
shake  hands  with — the  one  wounded  in  action!" 

Partow  enclosed  the  stiffened  fingers  in  his  own  with 
something  of  the  caress  which  an  old  bear  that  is  in  very 
good  humor  might  give  to  a  promising  cub. 

"I  have  planned,  planned,  planned  for  this  time,"  he 
said.  "I  have  played  politics  with  statesmen  to  hold 
my  place  in  the  belief  that  I  was  the  man  for  the  work 
which  I  have  done.  The  world  shall  soon  know,  as  the 
elements  of  it  go  into  the  crucible  test,  whether  it  is 
well  done  or  not.  I  want  to  live  to  see  the  day  when  the 
last  charge  made  against  our  trenches  is  beaten  back. 
Then  they  may  throw  this  old  body  onto  the  rubbish 
heap  as  soon  as  they  please — it  is  a  fat,  unwieldy  behe 
moth  of  an  old  body!" 

"No,  no,  it  isn't!"  Lanstron  objected  hotly.  He  was 
seeing  only  what  most  people  saw  after  talking  with 
Partow  for  a  few  minutes,  his  fine,  intelligent  eyes  and 
beautiful  forehead. 

"All  that  I  wanted  of  the  body  was  to  feed  my  brain," 
Partow  continued,  heedless  of  the  interruption.  "I  have 
watched  my  mind  as  a  navigator  watches  a  barometer. 
I  have  been  ready  at  the  first  sign  that  it  was  losing  its 
grip  to  give  up.  Yet  I  have  felt  that  my  body  would  go 
on  feeding  my  brain  and  that  to  the  last  moment  of 


i34  THE  LAST  SHOT 

consciousness,  when  suddenly  the  body  collapses,  I  should 
have  self-possession  and  energy  of  mind.  Under  the  com 
ing  strain  the  shock  may  come,  as  a  cord  snaps.  At  that 
instant  my  successor  will  take  up  my  work  where  I  leave 
it  off." 

"Goerwitz,  you  mean."  Lanstron  referred  in  unmis 
takable  apprehension  to  the  vice-chief  of  staff,  whom  all 
the  army  knew  had  no  real  ability  or  decision  under 
neath  his  pleasing,  confident  exterior. 

"No,  not  Goerwitz/'  said  Partow,  with  a  shrug. 
"Some  one  who  will  go  on  with  the  weaving,  not  by 
knotting  threads  but  with  the  same  threads  in  a  smooth 
fabric."  Lanstron  felt  an  increased  pressure  of  the 
hand,  a  communicated  tingling  to  his  nerves.  "I  have 
chosen  him.  The  old  fogy  who  has  aimed  to  join  ex 
perience  to  youth  chooses  youth.  You  took  your 
medicine  without  grumbling  in  the  disagreeable  but 
vitally  important  position  of  chief  of  intelligence.  Now 
you — there,  don't  tremble  with  stage  fright! "  For  Lan- 
stron's  hand  was  quivering  in  Partow's  grasp,  while  his 
face  was  that  of  a  man  stunned. 

"But  Goerwitz — what  will  he  say?"  he  gasped. 

"Goerwitz  goes  to  a  division  in  reserve." 

"And  the  army!  The  government!  What  will  they 
say  at  such — such  a  jump  for  a  colonel?" 

"The  government  leaves  all  to  me  from  the  day  war 
begins.  I  shall  transfer  others  than  Goerwitz — others 
who  have  had  influence  with  the  premier  which  it  was 
not  wise  to  deny  in  time  of  peace." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  answered  Lanstron,  with  a  subor 
dinate's  automatic  consent  to  a  superior's  orders.  His 
words  sounded  ridiculous  in  view  of  his  feelings,  yet  they 
were  more  expressive  than  any  florid  speech. 

"You  are  to  be  at  the  right  hand  of  this  old  body," 
continued  Partow.  "You  are  to  go  with  me  to  the 
front;  to  sleep  in  the  room  next  to  mine;  to  be  always  at 
my  side,  and,  finally,  you  are  to  promise  that  if  ever 
the  old  body  fails  in  its  duty  to  the  mind,  if  ever  you  see 


IN  PARTOW'S   OFFICE  135 

that  I  am  not  standing  up  to  the  strain,  you  are  to  say 
so  to  me  and  I  give  you  my  word  that  I  shall  let  you 
take  charge." 

Lanstron  was  too  stunned  to  speak  for  a  moment. 
The  arrangement  seemed  a  hideous  joke ;  a  refinement  of 
cruelty  inconceivable.  It  was  expecting  him  to  tell 
Atlas  that  he  was  old  and  to  take  the  weight  of  the  world 
off  the  giant's  shoulders. 

"Have  you  lost  your  patriotism?"  demanded  Partow. 
"Are  you  afraid?  Afraid  to  tell  me  the  truth?  Afraid 
of  duty?  Afraid  in  your  youth  of  the  burden  that  I 
bear  in  age?" 

His  fingers  closed  in  on  Lanstron's  with  such  force 
that  the  grip  was  painful. 

" Promise!"  he  commanded. 

"I  promise!"  Lanstron  said  with  a  throb. 

"That's  it!  That's  the  way!  That's  the  kind  of 
soldier  I  like,"  Partow  declared  with  change  of  tone,  and 
he  rose  from  his  chair  with  a  spring  that  was  a  delight 
to  Lanstron  in  its  proof  of  the  physical  vigor  so  stoutly 
denied.  "We  have  a  lot  to  say  to  each  other  to-day," 
he  added;  "but  first  I  am  going  to  show  you  the  whole 
bag  of  tricks." 

His  arm  crooked  in  Lanstron's,  they  went  along  the 
main  corridor  of  the  staff  office  hung  with  portraits  of 
generals  who  had  beaten  or  held  their  own  with  the 
Grays.  Passing  through  a  door  for  which  Partow  held 
the  key,  they  were  in  a  dim,  narrow  passage  with  bare 
walls,  lighted  by  two  small  gas  flames.  At  the  end  was 
another,  a  heavy  steel  door,  of  the  sort  associated  with 
the  protection  of  bonds  and  securities,  but  in  this  case 
for  the  security  of  a  nation's  defence.  Partow  turned 
the  knob  of  the  combination  back  and  forth,  and  with  the 
smooth  swing  of  a  great  weight  on  noiseless  hinges  the 
door  opened  and  they  entered  a  vault  having  a  single 
chair  and  a  small  table  in  the  centre  and  lined  by  sec 
tions  of  numbered  pigeonholes,  each  with  a  combina 
tion  lock.  At  the  base  of  one  section  was  a  small  safe. 


136  THE  LAST  SHOT 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  Lanstron  had  been  in  this 
vault.  He  had  the  combination  of  two  of  the  sections 
of  pigeonholes,  aerostatics  and  intelligence.  The  rest 
belonged  to  other  divisions. 

"The  safe  is  my  own,  as  you  know.  No  one  opens 
it;  no  one  knows  what  is  in  it  but  me,"  said  Partow, 
taking  from  it  an  envelope  and  a  manuscript,  which  he 
laid  on  the  table.  "  There  you  have  all  that  is  in  my 
brain — the  whole  plan.  The  envelope  contains  the 
combinations  of  all  the  pigeonholes,  if  you  wish  to  look 
up  any  details." 

"Thank  you!"  Lanstron  half  whispered.  It  was  all 
he  could  think  of  to  say. 

"And  you  will  find  that  there  is  more  than  you 
thought,  perhaps:  the  reason  why  I  have  fought  hard 
to  remain  chief  of  staff;  why—"  Partow  continued  in  a 
voice  that  had  the  sepulchral  uncanniness  of  a  threat 
long  nursed  now  breaking  free  of  the  bondage  of  years 
within  the  sound-proof  walls.  "But —  '  he  broke  off 
suddenly  as  if  he  distrusted  even  the  security  of  the 
vault.  "Yes,  it  is  all  there — my  life's  work,  my  dream, 
my  ambition,  my  plan!" 

Lanstron  heard  the  lock  slide  in  the  door  as  Partow 
went  out  and  he  was  alone  with  the  army's  secrets.  As 
he  read  Partow's  firm  handwriting,  many  parts  fell  to 
gether,  many  moves  on  a  chess-board  grew  clear.  His 
breath  came  faster,  he  bent  closer  over  the  table,  he 
turned  back  pages  to  go  over  them  again.  Every  sen 
tence  dropped  home  in  his  mind  like  a  bolt  in  a  socket. 

When  he  had  finished  the  manuscript  the  trance  of 
his  thoughts  held  him  in  the  same  attitude.  "Five 
millions  to  our  three!"  a  voice  kept  repeating  to  him. 
"In  face  of  that  this  dream!"  another  voice  was  saying. 
Had  it  been  right  to  intrust  such  responsibility  to  one 
man  of  Partow's  age  and  right  to  transfer  that  respon 
sibility  to  himself  in  an  emergency?  Yet  how  clear  the 
plan  in  the  confidence  of  its  wisdom !  Unconscious  of  the 
passage  of  time,  he  did  not  hear  the  door  open  or  realize 


IN  PARTOW'S  OFFICE  137 

Partow's  presence  until  he  felt  Partow's  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

"I  see  that  you  didn't  look  into  any  of  the  pigeon 
holes,"  the  chief  of  staff  observed. 

Lanstron  pressed  his  finger-tips  on  the  manuscript 
significantly. 

"No.     It  is  all  there!" 

"The  thing  being  to  carry  it  out! "  said  Partow.  " God 
with  us!"  he  added  devoutly. 


XV 
CLOSE  TO  THE  WHITE  POSTS 

HAVE  you  forgotten  Hugo  Mallin,  humorist  of  Com 
pany  B  of  the  1 28th  Regiment  of  the  Grays,  whom  we 
left  in  their  barracks  under  orders  for  South  La  Tir  on 
the  afternoon  that  Westerling  called  on  Marta  Galland? 
Have  you  forgotten  Eugene  Aronson,  the  farmer's  son, 
and  Jacob  Pilzer,  the  butcher's  son,  and  pasty-faced 
little  Peterkin,  the  valet's  son,  and  the  judge's  son,  and 
the  other  privates  of  the  group  that  surrounded  Hugo 
Mallin  as  he  aired  heresies  that  set  them  laughing? 

Through  the  press,  an  unconscious  instrument  of  his 
purpose,  the  astute  premier  has  inoculated  them  with 
the  virus  of  militant  patriotism.  Day  by  day  the  crisis 
has  become  more  acute;  day  by  day  the  war  fever  has 
risen  in  their  veins.  Big  Eugene  Aronson  believes 
everything  he  reads;  his  country  can  do  no  wrong. 
Jacob  Pilzer  is  most  bellicose;  he  chafes  at  inaction, 
while  they  all  suffer  the  discomforts  of  an  empty  factory 
building  in  the  rear  of  South  La  Tir  which  has  become 
a  temporary  barracks. 

On  Tuesday  they  hear  of  crowds  around  the  Foreign 
Office  demanding  war,  on  Wednesday  of  panics  on  the 
stock  exchanges,  on  Thursday  of  mobilization  actually 
begun  and  a  rigid  press  censorship  established,  and  on 
Friday  other  regiments  and  guns  and  horses  are  de 
training  and  departing  right  and  left.  Hurrying  officers 
know  nothing  except  what  they  have  been  told  to  do. 

"When  do  we  start?  What  are  we  waiting  for?" 
demanded  Pilzer.  "I  want  to  be  in  the  thick  of  the 
fighting  and  not  trailing  along  with  the  reserves!"  If 

138 


CLOSE  TO  THE  WHITE  POSTS          139 

any  one  in  the  i28th  wins  the  bronze  cross  he  means  that 
it  shall  be  he  and  not  Eugene  Aronson. 

"  Never  mind,  you'll  have  a  chance.  There'll  be  war 
enough  to  go  around,  I  am  sure!"  said  Hugo  Mallin. 

"More  than  you'll  want!"  Pilzer  shot  back,  thrust 
ing  out  his  jaw. 

"I'm  sure  of  that!"  answered  Hugo,  the  mask  of 
his  face  drawn  in  quizzical  solemnity.  "I  don't  want 
any  at  all." 

This  brought  a  tremendous  laugh.  All  the  laughs 
had  been  tremendous  since  mobilization  had  begun  in 
earnest,  and  the  atmosphere  was  like  the  suspense  before 
a  thunder-storm  breaks. 

On  Saturday  evening  the  i28th  was  mustered  in  field 
accoutrements  and  a  full  supply  of  cartridges.  In  the 
darkness  the  first  battalion  marched  out  at  right  angles 
to  the  main  road  that  ran  through  La  Tir  and  South  La 
Tir.  At  length  Company  B,  deployed  in  line  of  skir 
mishers,  lay  down  to  sleep  on  its  arms. 

"We  wait  here  for  the  word,"  Fracasse,  the  captain, 
whispered  to  his  senior  lieutenant.  "If  it  comes,  our 
objective  is  the  house  and  the  old  castle  on  the  hill 
above  the  town." 

The  tower  of  the  church  showed  dimly  when  a  pale 
moon  broke  through  a  cloud.  By  its  light  Hugo  saw 
on  his  right  Eugene's  big  features  and  massive  shoulders 
and  on  his  left  the  pinched  and  characterless  features  of 
Peterkin.  A  few  yards  ahead  was  a  white  stone  post. 

"That's  their  side  over  there!"  whispered  the  banker's 
son,  who  was  next  to  Peterkin. 

"When  we  cross  war  begins,"  said  the  manufacturer's 
son. 

"I  wonder  if  they  are  expecting  us!"  said  the  judge's 
son  a  trifle  huskily,  in  an  attempt  at  humor,  though  he 
was  not  given  to  humor. 

"Just  waiting  to  throw  bouquets!"  whispered  the 
laborer's  son.  He,  too,  was  not  given  to  humor  and  he, 
too,  spoke  a  trifle  huskily. 


140  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"And  we'll  fix  bayonets  when  we  start  and  they  will 
run  at  the  sight  of  our  steel!"  said  Eugene  Aronson. 
He  and  Hugo  alone,  not  excepting  Pilzer,  the  butcher's 
son,  spoke  in  their  natural  voices.  The  others  were 
trying  to  make  their  voices  sound  natural,  while  Pilzer's 
voice  had  developed  a  certain  ferocity,  and  the  liver 
patch  on  his  cheek  twitched  more  frequently.  "Why, 
Company  B  is  in  front !  We  have  the  post  of  honor,  and 
maybe  our  company  will  win  the  most  glory  of  any  in 
the  regiment!"  Eugene  added.  "Oh,  we'll  beat  them! 
The  bullet  is  not  made  that  will  get  me!" 

"Your  service  will  be  over  in  time  for  you  to  help  with 
the  spring  planting,  Eugene,"  whispered  Hugo,  who  was 
apparently  preoccupied  with  many  detached  thoughts. 

"And  you  to  be  at  home  sucking  lollipops!"  Pilzer 
growled  to  Hugo. 

"That  would  be  better  than  murdering  my  fellowman 
to  get  his  property,"  Hugo  answered,  so  soberly  that  it 
did  not  seem  to  his  comrades  that  he  was  joking  this 
time.  Pilzer's  snarling  exclamation  of  "White  feather!" 
came  in  the  midst  of  a  chorus  of  indignation. 

Captain  Fracasse,  who  had  heard  only  the  disturbance 
without  knowing  the  cause,  interfered  in  a  low,  sharp 
tone: 

"Silence!  As  I  have  told  you  before,  silence!  We 
don't  want  them  to  know  that  we  are  here.  Go  to 
sleep!  You  may  get  no  rest  to-morrow  night!" 

But  little  Peterkin,  the  question  in  his  mind  breaking 
free  of  his  lips,  unwittingly  asked: 

"Shall— shall  we  fight  in  the  morning?" 

"I  don't  know.  Nobody  knows ! "  answered  Fracasse. 
"We  wait  on  orders,  ready  to  do  our  duty.  There  may 
be  no  war.  Don't  let  me  hear  another  peep  from  you!" 

Now  all  closed  their  eyes.  In  front  of  them  was  vast 
silence  which  seemed  to  stretch  from  end  to  end  of  the 
frontier,  while  to  the  rear  was  the  rumble  of  switching 
railway  trains  and  the  rumble  of  provision  trains  and 
artillery  on  the  roads,  and  in  the  distance  on  the  plain 


CLOSE  TO  THE  WHITE  POSTS          141 

the  headlight  of  a  locomotive  cut  a  swath  in  the  black 
night.  But  the  breathing  of  most  of  the  men  was  not 
that  of  slumber,  though  Eugene  and  Pilzer  slept  soundly. 
Hours  passed.  Occasional  restless  movements  told  of 
efforts  to  force  sleep  by  changing  position. 

"It's  the  waiting  that's  sickening!"  exploded  the 
manufacturer's  son  under  his  breath,  desperately. 

"So  I  say.  I'd  like  to  be  at  it  and  done  with  the 
suspense!"  said  the  doctor's  son. 

"They  say  if  you  are  shot  through  the  head  you  don't 
know  what  killed  you,  it's  so  quick.  Think  of  that!" 
exclaimed  Peterkin,  huddling  closer  to  Hugo  and  shiver 
ing. 

"Yes,  very  merciful,"  Hugo  whispered,  patting 
Peterkin's  arm. 

"Sh-h-h!  Silence,  I  tell  you!"  commanded  Fracasse 
crossly.  He  was  falling  into  a  half  doze  at  last. 


XVI 

DELLARME'S  MEN  GET  A  MASCOT 

AND  have  you  forgotten  gigantic  Private  Stransky, 
born  to  the  red,  with  the  hedgerows  of  the  world  his 
home?  Havejyou  forgotten  Tom  Fragini  and  the  sergeant 
and  the  others  of  Captain  Dellarme's  men  of  the  53d  of 
the  Browns,  whom  we  left  marching  along  the  road  to 
La  Tir,  with  old  Grandfather  Fragini,  veteran  of  the 
Hussars,  in  his  faded  uniform  coat  with  his  medal  on 
his  breast,  keeping  step,  hep-hep-hep? 

Grandfather  Fragini  has  attached  himself  to  the 
regiment  while  it  rests  in  barracks  a  few  hours'  march 
from  the  frontier.  He  is  accepted  as  the  mascot  of  the 
company  in  which  both  his  grandson  and  Stransky  are 
serving.  But  he  never  speaks  to  Stransky  and  refers 
to  him  in  the  third  person  as  "  that  traitor,"  which  makes 
Stransky  grin  sardonically.  Each  day's  developments 
bring  more  color  to  his  cheeks;  his  rheumatic  old  legs 
are  limbering  with  the  elixir  of  rising  patriotism,  though 
Tom  and  his  comrades  are  singularly  without  enthusi 
asm,  according  to  grandfather's  idea.  They  read  the 
newspapers  gluttonously  and  they  welcome  each  item 
that  promises  a  peaceful  solution  of  the  crisis. 

Inwardly,  Grandfather  Fragini  is  worried  about  the 
state  of  the  army.  Is  his  race  becoming  decadent?  Or, 
as  he  puts  it,  are  the  younger  generation  without  sand 
in  their  craws?  When  he  came  into  the  barracks  yard 
swinging  his  cap  aloft  and  shouting  the  news  that  mobili 
zation  had  begun  there  was  not  even  a  cheer. 

"I  suppose  it  means  war,"  said  Tom  Fragini  with 

142 


DELLARME'S   MEN   GET  A  MASCOT     143 

a  soberness  that  was  in  keeping  with  the  grave  faces 
of  his  fellows.  Stransky  sitting  at  one  side  by  himself 
smiled. 

"Well,  you'd  think  it  was  a  funeral!"  grandfather  ex 
claimed  in  disgust. 

"There  will  be  lots  of  funerals!"  said  Tom. 

"I  s'pose  there  will  be;  but  if  you  get  that  in  your 
mind  how  can  you  fight?"  grandfather  demanded. 
"Why,  if  any  Hussar  had  spoken  of  funerals  we'd  called 
him  white-livered,  that's  what  we  would!  We  cheered 
till  we  was  hoarse;  we  danced  and  hugged  one  another; 
we  rattled  our  sabres  in  our  scabbards;  we  sang  rip- 
roaring  death-or-glory  songs.  When  you're  going  to 
war  you  want  to  sing  and  shout.  That's  the  way  to 
keep  your  spirits  up." 

"Let's  sing  'Ring-around-the-rosy'  to  please  the  old 
gentleman.  Come  on!"  suggested  Stransky. 

"I  don't  see  that  we  are  after  either  death  or  glory," 
said  Tom.  "We  are  going  to  do  our  duty." 

The  impulse  of  enthusiasm  seemed  equally  lacking 
in  the  others.  Stransky  grinned  and  his  deep-set  eyes 
turned  inward  with  a  squint  of  knowing  satisfaction  at 
the  bony  bridge  of  his  nose. 

"I'm  not  wanting  any  traitor  to  start  any  songs  for 
me!"  declared  grandfather. 

"Never  mind.  The  fellows  on  the  other  side  aren't  any 
more  enthusiastic  than  we  are,  grandfather,"  Stransky 
said  soothingly,  in  his  mocking  way.  "The  fact  is,  we 
don't  want  to  kill  our  brothers  across  the  frontier  and 
they  don't  want  to  kill  us  or  be  killed.  It's  only  the 
ruling  classes  that  want  the  proletariat  to 

"Fire  away,  Stransky!  It's  hours  since  you  made  a 
speech!"  chirruped  a  voice. 

"Look  out,  Bert,  the  sergeant's  coming!"  another 
voice  warned  the  orator. 

The  state  of  mind  of  the  53d  was  that  of  all  the  regi 
ments  of  the  Browns  with  their  faces  toward  the  white 
posts,  quiet,  thoughtful,  and  grave;  for  they  had  not 


144  THE  LAST  SHOT 

to  arouse  ardor  for  the  aggressive.  As  they  were  to  re 
ceive  rather  than  give  blows,  they  might  be  more  honest 
with  themselves  than  the  men  of  the  Grays. 

In  marching  order,  with  cartridge-boxes  full,  on  Satur 
day  night  the  53d  marched  out  to  the  main  pass  road. 
When  Grandfather  Fragini  found  that  he  had  been 
ordered  to  remain  behind  he  sought  the  colonel. 

"I've  got  reasons!    Let  me  come!"  he  pleaded. 

"No.     It  is  no  place  for  you." 

"I  can  keep  up!     I  can  keep  up!    I  feel  like  a  boy!" 

"But  it  is  different  these  days,  and  this  is  the  infantry. 
The  bullets  carry  far.  You  will  not  know  how  to  take 
cover,"  the  colonel  explained. 

"Well,  if  I  am  killed  I  won't  be  losing  much  time  on 
this  earth,"  grandfather  observed  with  cool  logic.  "But 
that  ain't  it.  I'm  worried  about  Tom.  I'm  afraid  he 
ain't  going  to  fight!  I — I  want  to  stiffen  him  up! " 

"He  will  fight,  all  right.  Sorry,  but  it  is  out  of  the 
question,"  said  the  colonel,  turning  away. 

Grandfather  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  shook 
with  the  sobs  of  second  childhood  until  an  idea  occurred 
to  him.  Wasn't  he  a  free  man?  Hadn't  he  as  much 
right  as  anybody  to  use  the  public  highway?  Drying 
his  eyes,  he  set  out  along  the  road  in  the  wake  of  the 
regiment. 

One  company  after  another  left  the  road  at  a  given 
point,  bound  for  the  position  mapped  in  its  instructions. 
Dellarme's,  however,  went  on  until  it  was  opposite  the 
Galland  house. 

"We  are  depending  on  you,"  the  colonel  said  to  Del- 
larme,  giving  his  hand  a  grip.  "You  are  not  to  draw  off 
till  you  get  the  flag." 

"No,  sir,"  Dellarme  replied. 

"Mind  the  signal  to  the  batteries — keep  the  men 
screened — warn  them  not  to  let  their  first  baptism  of 
shell  fire  shake  their  nerves!"  the  colonel  added  in  a 
final  repetition  of  instructions  already  indelibly  impressed 
on  the  captain's  mind. 


DELLARME'S  MEN  GET  A  MASCOT     145 

Moving  cautiously  through  a  cut,  Dellarme's  company 
came,  about  midnight,  to  a  halt  among  the  stubble  of  a 
wheat-field  behind  a  knoll.  After  he  had  bidden  the 
men  to  break  ranks,  he  crept  up  the  incline. 

"Yes,  it's  there!"  he  whispered  when  he  returned. 
"On  the  crest  of  the  knoll  a  cord  is  stretched  from  stake 
to  stake,"  he  said,  explaining  the  reason  for  what  was 
to  be  done,  as  was  his  custom.  "The  engineers  placed 
it  there  after  dusk  and  the  frontier  was  closed,  so  that 
you  would  know  just  where  to  use  your  spades  in  the 
dark.  Quietly  as  possible!  No  talking!"  he  kept  cau 
tioning  as  the  men  turned  the  soft  earth,  "and  not 
higher  than  the  cord,  and  lay  the  stubble  side  of  the  sods 
on  the  reverse  so  as  to  cover  the  fresh  earth  on  the 
sky-line." 

When  the  work  was  done  all  returned  behind  the  knoll 
except  the  sentries  posted  at  intervals  on  the  crest  to 
watch.  With  the  aid  of  a  small  electric  flash,  screened 
by  his  hands,  Dellarme  again  examined  a  section  of  the 
staff  map  that  outlined  the  contour  of  the  knoll  in  re 
lation  to  the  other  positions.  After  this  he  wrote  in 
his  diary  the  simple  facts  of  the  day's  events,  concluding 
with  a  sentiment  of  gratitude  for  the  honor  shown  to 
his  company  and  a  prayer  that  he  might  keep  a  clear 
head  and  do  his  duty  if  war  came  on  the  morrow. 

"Now,  every  one  get  all  the  sleep  he  can!"  he  advised 
the  men. 

Stransky  slept,  with  his  head  on  his  arm,  as  soundly  as 
Eugene  Aronson,  his  antithesis  in  character;  the  others 
slept  no  better  than  the  men  of  the  i28th.  The  night 
passed  without  any  alarm  except  that  of  their  own 
thoughts,  and  they  welcomed  dawn  as  a  relief  from 
suspense.  There  was  no  hot  coffee  this  morning,  and 
they  washed  down  their  rations  with  water  from  their 
canteens.  The  old  sergeant  was  lying  beside  Captain 
Dellarme  on  the  crest,  the  sunrise  in  their  faces.  As 
the  mist  cleared  from  the  plain  it  revealed  the  white 
dots  of  the  frontier  posts  in  the  meadow  and  behind 


i46  THE  LAST  SHOT 

them  many  gray  figures  in  skirmish  order,  scarcely  vis 
ible  except  through  the  glasses. 

"It  looks  like  business!"  declared  the  old  sergeant. 

"Yes,  it  begins  the  minute  they  cross  the  line!"  said 
Dellarme. 

His  glance  sweeping  to  the  rear  to  scan  the  landscape 
under  the  light  of  day,  he  recognized,  with  a  sense  of 
pride  and  awe,  the  tactical  importance  of  his  company's 
position  in  relation  to  that  of  the  other  companies. 
Easily  he  made  out  the  regimental  line  by  streaks  of 
concealed  trenches  and  groups  of  brown  uniforms;  and 
here  and  there  were  the  oblong,  cloth  stretches  of  waiting 
hospital  litters.  On  the  reverse  slope  of  another  knoll 
was  the  farmhouse,  marked  X  on  his  map  as  the  regi 
mental  headquarters,  where  he  was  to  watch  for  the 
signal  to  fall  back  from  his  first  stand  in  delaying  the 
enemy's  advance.  Directly  to  the  rear  was  the  cut 
through  which  the  company  had  come  from  the  main 
pass  road,  and  beyond  that  the  Galland  house,  which  was 
to  be  the  second  stand. 

"Can  you  see  them  from  up  here?"  chirped  a  voice  in 
a  jubilant,  cackling  laugh  that  drew  Dellarme's  atten 
tion  to  his  immediate  surroundings,  and  he  saw  Grand 
father  Fragini  coming  up  to  join  him  on  the  crest.  He 
slid  back  on  his  stomach  below  the  sky-line  and  held  up 
an  arresting  hand. 

"Kept  along  after  you,"  piped  the  old  man;  "and  it's 
just  as  I  thought — the  glummest  lot  of  funeral  faces  I 
ever  seen!" 

"You  must  not  remain!  Follow  that  cut  there  and 
it  will  take  you  out  to  the  road!"  Dellarme  told  grand 
father  sharply. 

"Just  got  to  stay.  Too  tired  to  take  another  step," 
and  grandfather  dropped  in  utter  exhaustion.  "Have 
to  carry  me  if  you  want  me  to  go." 

"That  means  two  men  out  of  the  line,"  thought  Del 
larme. 

"You're  an  archaic  old  fire-eater!"  Stransky  remarked 
in  cynical  amusement  to  grandfather. 


DELLARME'S  MEN  GET  A  MASCOT     147 

"And  you're  a  traitor!"  answered  grandfather  with 
all  the  energy  he  could  command. 

Now  Dellarme  disposed  his  men  in  line  back  of  the 
ridge  of  fresh  earth  that  they  had  dug  in  the  night, 
ready  to  rush  to  their  places  when  he  blew  the  whistle 
that  hung  from  his  neck,  but  he  did  not  allow  them  a 
glimpse  over  the  crest. 

"I  know  you  are  curious,  but  powerful  glasses  are 
watching  for  you  to  show  yourselves;  and  if  a  battery 
turned  loose  on  us  you'd  understand,"  he  explained. 

The  men  wanted  to  talk  but  did  not  know  what  to 
talk  about,  so  they  examined  their  rifles  critically  as  if 
they  were  unfamiliar  gifts  which  they  had  found  in  their 
stockings  on  Christmas  morning.  Some  began  to  empty 
their  magazines  of  cartridges  for  the  pleasure  or  occupa 
tion  of  refilling  them;  but  one  of  the  lieutenants  stopped 
this.  It  might  mean  delay  when  the  whistle  blew. 
Thus  the  hours  wore  on,  and  the  church  clock  struck 
nine  and  ten. 

"Never  a  movement  down  there!"  called  the  sergeant 
from  the  crest  to  Dellarme.  "  Maybe  this  is  just  their 
final  bluff  before  they  come  to  terms  about  Bodlapoo" 
— that  stretch  of  African  jungle  that  seemed  very  far 
away  to  them  all. 

"Let  us  hope  so!"  said  Dellarme  seriously. 

"Hope  there  won't  be  any  war!  Just  listen  to  that 
from  an  army  officer,  with  the  enemy  right  in  front 
of  him!"  gasped  grandfather. 


XVII 
A  SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  TOWN 

"You  ought  not  to  leave  the  house — not  this  morn 
ing,"  protested  Mrs.  Galland  when  Marta  was  putting 
on  her  hat  to  start  for  the  regular  Sunday  service  of  her 
school. 

"The  children  expect  me,'7  Marta  explained. 

"Hardly,  hardly  this  morning.  They  will  take  it  for 
granted  that  you  will  not  come." 

But  Marta  thrust  her  hatpin  home  decisively. 

"Jacky  Werther  will  certainly  be  there.  Though  he 
were  the  only  one  to  come,  I  would  not  disappoint  him! " 
she  said.  "Heaven  knows,  mother,  if  there  were  ever 
a  time  for  teaching  peace  it  is  to-day!  And  I  can't  re 
main  inactive.  Just  to  sit  still  and  wait  in  a  time  like 
this — that  is  too  terrible!" 

"As  you  will!"  Mrs.  Galland  responded  with  gentle 
resignation. 

Garden  and  veranda  were  as  peaceful  as  on  any  other 
Sunday  morning,  but  it  was  a  different  kind  of  peace — a 
peace  mocked  by  sounds  beyond  its  boundaries  which 
were  to  her  like  the  rattling  of  the  steel  scales  of  a  demon 
licking  its  jaws  with  its  red  tongue  in  voracious  antici 
pation  of  a  gorge  and  stretching  out  great  steel  claws  in 
readiness  to  sink  them  into  the  flesh  of  its  victims  when 
Partow  and  Westerling  gave  the  word.  As  Lanstron 
had  said,  this  demon  would  feed  on  every  resource  and 
energy  of  the  nation.  It  had  no  voice  and  no  thought 
except  kill,  kill,  kill!  And  man  called  this  demon  pa 
triotism  and  love  of  country.  Those  who  risked  death 

148 


A  SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  TOWN        149 

in  the  demon's  honor  got  iron  crosses  and  bronze  crosses, 
but  any  one  who  dared  to  call  it  by  its  true  name,  if  a 
man,  received  the  decoration  of  the  white  feather;  if  a 
woman,  was  regarded  as  a  sentimentalist  and  merely 
a  woman,  and  told  that  she  did  not  understand  practical 
human  nature. 

Choosing  to  go  to  town  by  the  castle  road  rather  than 
down  the  terrace  to  the  main  pass  road,  Marta,  as  she 
emerged  from  the  grounds,  saw  Feller,  garden-shears  in 
hand  and  in  his  workman's  clothes  instead  of  his  Sun 
day  black,  a  figure  of  stone  watching  the  approach  of 
some  field-batteries.  In  the  week  of  distracting  and 
cumulative  suspense  that  had  elapsed  since  his  secret 
had  been  revealed  to  her,  their  relations  had  continued 
as  before.  She  studiously  kept  up  the  fiction  of  his 
deafness  by  writing  her  orders.  The  question  of  al 
lowing  him  to  undertake  his  part  as  a  spy  had  drifted  into 
the  background  of  her  mind  under  the  distressing  and 
ever-present  pressure  of  the  crisis.  He  was  to  remain 
until  there  was  war,  and  thought  about  anything  that 
implied  that  war  was  coming  was  the  more  hideous  to 
her  the  nearer  war  approached. 

"It  will  be  averted!  It  cannot  be!"  she  was  think 
ing.  Her  glimpse  of  him  had  no  more  interest  for  her 
at  this  moment  of  preoccupation  than  any  other  familiar 
object  of  the  landscape. 

"The  guns!  The  guns!  How  I  love  the  guns!"  he 
was  thinking. 

She  was  almost  past  him  before  he  realized  her  pres 
ence,  which  he  acknowledged  by  a  startled  movement  and 
a  step  forward  as  he  took  off  his  hat.  She  paused.  His 
eyes  were  glowing  like  coals  under  a  blower  as  he  looked 
at  her  and  again  at  the  batteries,  seeming  to  include  her 
with  the  guns  in  the  spell  of  his  fervid  abstraction.  He 
was  unconscious  that  he  had  ever  been  anything  but  a 
soldier.  His  throat  was  athirst  for  words  and  his  words 
craved  a  listening  ear  for  all  the  pictures  of  the  ma 
chinery  of  war  in  motion  that  crowded  his  imagination. 


150  THE  LAST  SHOT 

To  him  the  demon  was  a  fair,  beckoning  god  in  cloth 
of  gold — a  god  of  hope  and  fortune. 

"  Frontier  closed  last  night  to  prevent  intelligence 
about  our  preparations  leaking  out — Lanny's  plan  all 
alive — the  guns  coming,"  he  went  on,  his  shoulders 
stiffening,  his  chin  drawing  in,  his  features  resolute  and 
beaming  with  the  ardor  of  youth  in  action — "  troops 
moving  here  and  there  to  their  places — engineers  pre 
paring  the  defences — automatics  at  critical  points  with 
the  infantry — field-wires  laid — field-telephones  set  up— 
the  wireless  spitting — the  caissons  full — planes  and  dir 
igibles  ready — search-lights  in  position- 
There  the  torrent  of  his  broken  sentences  was  checked. 
A  shadow  passed  in  front  of  him.  He  came  out  of  his 
trance  of  imageries  of  activities,  so  vividly  clear  to  his 
military  mind,  to  realize  that  Marta  was  abruptly  leav 
ing. 

"Miss  Galland!"  he  called  urgently.  " Firing  may 
commence  at  any  minute.  You  must  not  go  into  town ! " 

"But  I  must!"  she  declared,  speaking  over  her  shoul 
der  while  she  paused.  It  was  clear  that  no  warning 
would  prevail  against  her  determined  mood. 

"Then  I  shall  go  with  you!"  he  said,  starting  toward 
her  with  a  light  step,  in  keeping  with  the  gallantry  of  a 
man  even  younger  than  his  years.  He  spoke  in  a  tone 
of  protective  masculine  authority,  as  an  officer  might  to 
a  woman  of  whom  he  was  fond  when  he  saw  her  exposing 
herself  to  danger.  He  would  escort  her;  he  would  see 
that  no  harm  befell  her.  The  impulse  was  spontaneous 
in  an  illusion  free  of  the  gardener's  part.  But  he  saw  her 
lips  tighten  and  a  frown  gather. 

"It  is  not  necessary,  thank  you!"  she  answered,  more 
coldly  than  she  had  ever  spoken  to  him.  This  had  a 
magically  quick  effect  on  his  attitude. 

"I  beg  pardon!  I  forgot!"  he  explained  in  his  old 
man's  voice,  his  head  sinking,  his  shoulders  drooping 
in  the  humility  of  a  servant  who  recognizes  that  he  has 
been  properly  rebuked  for  presumption.  "Not  a  gunner 


A  SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  TOWN       151 

any  more — I'm  a  spy!"  he  thought,  as  he  shuffled  off 
without  looking  toward  the  batteries  again,  though  the 
music  of  wheels  and  hoofs  was  now  close  by.  "I  must 
turn  my  back  on  the  guns,  for  they  tempt  me.  And  I 
must  win  her  consent  before  I  shall  have  even  the 
dignity  of  a  spy — and  I  will  win  it!"  he  added,  brighten 
ing.  "La,  la,  la!  Trust  me!" 

Marta  had  a  glimpse,  as  she  turned  away,  of  an  ap- 
pealingly  pathetic  figure  bent  as  under  a  wound  to  his 
spirits,  which  gave  her  a  sense  of  personal  cruelty  in  the 
midst  of  a  wave  of  pity  and  regret. 

"He  is  what  he  is  because  of  the  army;  a  victim  of  a 
cult,  a  habit,"  she  was  thinking.  "Had  he  been  in  any 
other  calling  his  fine  qualities  might  have  been  of  ser 
vice  to  the  world  and  he  would  have  been  happy." 

Then  her  sympathy  was  drawn  to  another  object  of 
war's  injustice — a  man  approaching  under  the  guard  of 
two  soldiers.  Suddenly  the  man  planted  his  feet  and 
refused  to  budge. 

"I  tell  you,  it  isn't  fair!"  he  cried  in  rage  and  appeal. 
"I  tell  you,  I  was  only  visiting  on  this  side  and  got 
caught!  I'm  a  reservist  of  the  first  line.  If  I  don't 
answer  the  call  I'll  be  branded  a  shirker  in  my  village, 
and  I've  got  to  live  in  that  village  all  my  life.  You 
better  kill  me  and  have  done  with  it!" 

"Sorry,"  said  one  of  the  soldiers,  "but  you  were 
caught  trying  to  sneak.  We're  acting  under  orders. 
No  use  of  balking." 

"Who  wouldn't  sneak?"  demanded  the  prisoner  des 
perately.  "Oh,  say,  be  a  little  human!  The  worst  of 
it  is  that  I  came  over  here  to  see  my  girl  to  say  good-by 
to  her.  I'm  going  to  marry  her,"  he  pleaded,  "though 
my  folks  are  against  it  because  she's  a  Brown.  '  It  makes 
me  so  cheap — it " 

"We  were  told  to  take  you  to  the  general.  He'll 
let  you  off  if  there  isn't  any  war,  and  he  may,  anyway. 
But  he  sure  won't  if  you  resist  arrest."  The  soldiers 
seized  his  arms  firmly.  "Come  along!"  they  said,  and 


152  THE  LAST  SHOT 

he  went.  Any  one  must  go  when  a  steel  claw  of  the 
demon  enforces  the  order. 

A  company  of  infantry  resting  among  their  stacked 
rifles  changed  the  color  of  the  square  in  the  distance 
from  the  gray  of  pavement  to  the  brown  of  a  mass  of 
uniforms.  In  the  middle  of  the  main  street  a  major  of 
the  brigade  staff,  with  a  number  of  junior  officers  and 
orderlies,  was  evidently  waiting  on  some  signal.  Sen 
tries  were  posted  at  regular  intervals  along  the  curb. 
The  people  in  the  houses  and  shops  from  time  to  time 
stopped  packing  up  their  effects  long  enough  to  go  to 
the  doors  and  look  up  and  down  apprehensively,  asking 
bootless,  nervous  questions. 

"Are  they  coming  yet?" 

"Do  you  think  they  will  come?" 

"Are  you  sure  it's  going  to  be  war?" 

"Will  they  shell  the  town?" 

"There'll  be  time  enough  for  you  to  get  away!" 
shouted  the  major.  "All  we  know  is  what  is  written 
in  our  instructions,  and  we  shall  act  on  them  when  the 
thing  starts.  Then  we  are  in  command.  Meanwhile, 
get  ready!" 

A  lieutenant  of  a  detachment  of  engineers  coming  at 
the  double  from  a  cross  street  stopped  to  inquire: 

"This  way  to  the  knitting  mills?" 

"Straight  ahead!  Can't  go  wrong!"  the  major  an 
swered. 

"We  are  going  to  loophole  their  walls  for  the  infan 
try,"  explained  the  lieutenant  as  he  hurried  on. 

"Then  they're  going  to  fight  in  the  town!" 

"Blow  our  homes  to  pieces!" 

"Destroy  our  property!" 

After  this  fusillade  from  the  people  the  major  glared  at 
the  retreating  back  of  the  lieutenant  as  much  as  to  say 
that  some  men  would  never  learn  to  hold  their  tongues. 
Naturally,  the  duty  of  looking  after  refugees  was  not  to 
his  soldierly  taste. 

"We  are  doing  it  all  for  you,  for  the  country,"  he  ex- 


A  SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  TOWN       153 

plained.  "We  are  going  to  make  them  pay  for  every 
foot  they  take — the  invaders!" 

"Yes,  make  them  pay!"  called  a  voice  from  the 
houses. 

"Make  them  pay!"  other  voices  joined  in. 

"It  isn't  the  fellows  just  across  the  border  that  want 
to  take  our  property,"  said  an  elderly  man.  "They're 
good  friends  enough.  It's  the  Grays'  politicians  and  the 
fire-eaters  in  the  other  provinces." 

"The  robbers!"  piped  a  woman's  high-pitched  note. 
"I've  got  a  son  in  the  army,  and  if  ever  he  leaves  that 
mountain  range  and  goes  down  the  other  side  with  the 
Grays  chasing  him,  he'll  get  worse  from  me  than  the 
Grays  could  give  him!" 

"That's  right!  That's  the  way  to  talk!"  came  a 
chorus. 

Then  the  major  became  aware  of  a  young  woman  who 
was  going  in  the  wrong  direction.  Her  cheeks  were 
flushed  from  her  rapid  walk,  her  lips  were  parted,  show 
ing  firm,  white  teeth,  and  her  black  eyes  were  re 
garding  him  in  a  blaze  of  satire  or  amusement;  an 
emotion,  whatever  it  was,  that  thoroughly  centred  his 
attention.  * 

"Yes,"  she  said,  anger  getting  the  better  of  her, 
"make  them  pay — and  they  make  you  pay — and  you 
make  them  pay — and  so  on!" 

The  major  smiled.  It  seemed  the  safe  thing  to  do. 
He  did  not  know  but  the  young  woman  might  charge. 

"Mademoiselle,  I  am  sorry,  but  unless  you  live  in 
this  direction,"  he  said  very  politely,  "you  may  not  go 
any  farther.  Until  we  have  other  orders  or  they  attack, 
every  one  is  supposed  to  remain  in  his  house  or  his  place 
of  business." 

"This  is  my  place  of  business!"  Marta  answered,  for 
she  was  already  opposite  a  small,  disused  chapel  which 
was  her  schoolroom,  where  a  half  dozen  of  the  faithful 
children  were  gathered  around  the  masculine  importance 
of  Jacky  Werther,  one  of  the  older  boys. 


i54  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"Then  you  are  Miss  Galland!"  said  the  major,  en 
lightened.  His  smile  had  an  appreciation  of  the  irony 
of  her  occupation  at  that  moment.  "Your  children 
are  very  loyal.  They  would  not  tell  me  where  they 
lived,  so  we  had  to  let  them  stay  there." 

"Those  who  have  homes,"  she  said,  identifying  each 
one  of  the  faithful  with  a  glance,  "have  so  many  brothers 
and  sisters  that  they  will  hardly  be  missed  from  the  flock. 
Others  have  no  homes — at  least,  not  much  of  a  one"- 
here  her  temper  rose  again — "taxes  being  so  high  in 
order  that  you  may  organize  murder  and  the  destruc 
tion  of  property." 

"I—  "  gasped  the  major  under  the  fire  of  those  black 
eyes. 

But  their  flashes  suddenly  splintered  into  less  threat 
ening  lights  as  she  realized  the  fatuity  of  this  personal 
allusion. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  the  town  scold!"  she  explained  with  a 
nervous  little  laugh  that  helped  her  to  recover  poise. 

With  the  black  eyes  in  this  mood,  the  major  was  con 
scious  only  of  a  desire  to  please  which  conflicted  with 
duty. 

"Now,  really,  Miss  Galland,"  he  began  solicitously, 
"I  have  been  assigned  to  move  the  civil  population  in 
case  of  attack.  Your  children  ought — 

"After  school!  You  have  your  duty  this  morning 
and  I  have  mine!"  Marta  interrupted  pleasantly,  and 
turned  toward  the  chapel. 

"They  are  putting  sharpshooters  in  the  church  tower 
to  get  the  aeroplanes,  and  there  are  lots  of  the  little  guns 
that  fire  bullets  so  fast  you  can't  count  'em — and  little 
spring  wagons  with  dynamite  to  blow  things  up — and — 
Jacky  Werther  ran  on  in  a  series  of  vocal  explosions  as 
Marta  opened  the  door  to  let  the  children  go  in. 

"Yet  you  came!"  said  Marta  with  a  hand  caressingly 
on  his  shoulder. 

"It  looks  pretty  bad  for  peace,  but  we  came,"  an 
swered  Jacky,  round-eyed,  in  loyalty,  "We'd  come 


A  SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  TOWN       155 

right  through  the  bullets  'cause  we  said  we  would  if  we 
wasn't  sick,  and  we  wasn't  sick." 

"My  seven  disciples — seven!"  exclaimed  Marta  as 
she  counted  them.  "And  you  need  not  sit  on  the  reg 
ular  seats,  but  around  me  on  the  platform.  It  will  be 
more  intimate." 

"That's  grand!"  came  in  chorus.  They  did  not 
bother  about  chairs,  but  seated  themselves  on  the  floor 
around  Marta's  skirts. 

"My,  Miss  Galland,  but  your  eyes  are  bright!" 

"And  your  cheeks  are  all  red!" 

"With  little  spots  in  the  centre!" 

"You're  very  wonderful,  Miss  Galland!" 

The  church  clock  boomed  out  its  deliberate  strokes 
through  ten,  the  hour  set  for  the  lesson,  and  all  counted 
them — one — two — three.  Marta  was  thinking  what  a 
dismal  little  effort  theirs  was,  and  yet  she  was  very 
happy,  tremblingly  happy  in  her  distraction  and  excite 
ment,  that  they  had  not  waited  for  her  at  the  door  of 
the  chapel  in  vain. 

She  announced  that  there  would  be  no  talk  this  morn 
ing;  they  would  only  say  their  oath.  Repeating  in 
concert  the  pledge  to  the  boys  and  girls  of  other  lands, 
the  childish  voices  peculiarly  sweet  and  harmonious  in 
contrast  to  the  raucous  and  uneven  sounds  of  fore 
boding  from  the  street,  they  came  in  due  course  to  the 
words  of  the  concession  that  the  oath  made  to  mili 
tancy: 

"If  an  enemy  tries  to  take  my  land 

"Children — I — "  Marta  interrupted  with  a  sense  of 
wonder  and  shock.  They  paused  and  looked  at  her 
questioningly.  "I  had  almost  forgotten  that  part!" 
she  breathed  confusedly. 

"That's  the  part  that  makes  all  we're  doing  against 
the  Grays  right!"  put  in  Jacky  Werther  promptly. 

"As  I  wrote  it  for  you!  'I  shall  appeal  to  his  sense  of 
justice  and  reason  with  him 

Jaws  dropped  and  eyes  bulged,  for  above  the  sounds 


156  THE  LAST  SHOT 

of  the  street  rose  from  the  distance  the  unmistakable 
crackling  of  rifle-fire  which,  as  they  listened,  spread  and 
increased  in  volume. 

"  Go  on — on  to  the  end  of  the  oath!  It  will  take  only 
a  moment,"  said  Marta  resolutely.  "It  isn't  much,  but 
it's  the  best  we  can  do!" 


XVIII 
THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE 

AFTER  the  morning  sun  commenced  to  tickle  the  back 
of  his  neck,  Eugene  Aronson,  the  giant  of  the  i28th  of 
the  Grays,  stretched  his  limbs  as  healthily  as  a  cub  bear. 

"No  war  yet!"  he  exclaimed,  rubbing  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  we'd  have  called  you  if  there  were!"  said  the 
manufacturer's  son,  trying  to  make  a  joke,  which  was 
hard  work  with  his  clothes  dew-soaked  after  a  sleepless 
night  in  the  open. 

"Wouldn't  want  you  to  miss  it  after  coming  so  far," 
added  the  laborer's  son,  aiming  to  show  that  he,  too, 
was  in  a  light-hearted  mood. 

"And  how  did  you  sleep?"  asked  Eugene,  cheerily,  of 
his  neighbors. 

"Fine!" 

"First  rate!" 

"Like  a  stone!" 

Every  man  was  too  intent  in  forcing  his  own  spon 
taneity  to  notice  that  that  of  the  others  was  also  forced. 

"Like  a  top!"  chimed  in  pasty-faced  Peterkin,  the 
valet's  son,  to  be  in  fashion. 

"I  didn't  sleep  much  myself;  in  fact,  not  at  all," 
said  Hugo  Mallin. 

"Oh,  ho!"  groaned  Pilzer,  the  butcher's  son,  with  a 
broad  grin  that  made  a  crease  in  the  liver  patch  on  his 
cheek. 

"You  see,  it's  a  new  experience  for  me,"  Hugo  ex 
plained  in  a  drawl,  his  face  drawn  as  a  mask.  "I'm  not 
so  used  to  war  as  you  other  fellows  are.  I'm  not  so 
brave!" 


158  THE  LAST  SHOT 

There  was  a  forced  laugh  because  Hugo  appeared 
droll,  and  when  he  appeared  droll  it  was  the  proper 
thing  to  laugh.  Besides,  in  the  best  humor  there  is  a 
grain  of  truth,  whether  you  see  it  or  not.  This  time  a 
number  saw  it  quite  clearly. 

"I  was  thinking  how  ridiculous  we  all  are,"  Hugo 
went  on  without  change  of  tone  or  expression,  "  grovel 
ling  here  on  our  stomachs  and  pretending  that  we  slept 
when  we  didn't  and  that  we  want  to  be  killed  when  we 
don't!" 

" White  feather  again!"  Pilzer  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  shut  up!"  snapped  the  doctor's  son  irritably. 
"Let  Hugo  talk.  He's  only  gassing.  It's  so  monoto 
nous  lying  here  that  any  kind  of  nonsense  is  better  than 
growling." 

"Yes,  yes!"  the  others  agreed. 

Hugo's  outburst  of  the  previous  evening  was  forgotten. 
They  welcomed  anything  that  broke  the  suspense.  Let 
the  regimental  wag  make  a  little  fun  any  way  that  he 
could.  As  the  officers  had  withdrawn  somewhat  to  the 
rear  for  breakfast,  there  was  no  constraint. 

"I  was  thinking  how  I'd  like  to  go  out  and  shake 
hands  with  the  Browns,"  said  Hugo.  "That's  the  way 
fencers  and  pugilists  do  before  they  set  to.  It  seems 
polite  and  sportsmanlike,  indicating  that  there's  no 
prejudice." 

There  was  a  ripple  of  half-hearted  merriment  punctu 
ated  by  exclamations. 

"What  a  fool  idea!" 

"How  do  all  your  notions  get  into  your  head,  Hugo?" 

"Sometimes  by  squinting  at  the  moonlight  and  count 
ing  odd  numbers;  sometimes  by  knowing  that  anything 
that's  different  is  ridiculous;  and  sometimes  by  looking 
for  tangent  truths  out  of  professorial  ruts,"  Hugo  ob 
served  with  a  sort  of  erudite  discursiveness  which  was 
the  rank  dissimulation  of  a  hypocrite  to  Pilzer  and  wholly 
confusing  to  Peterkin,  not  to  say  a  draught  on  mental 
effort  for  many  of  the  others.  "For  instance,  I  got  a 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE  159 

good  one  from  two  fellows  of  the  Browns  whom  I  met 
on  the  road  the  first  day  we  arrived.  They  were  re 
servists.  We  were  soon  talking  together  and  so  peace 
ably  that  I  was  sceptical  if  they  were  Browns  at  all. 
So  I  determined  on  a  test.  I  told  them  I  was  from  a 
distant  province  and  hadn't  travelled  much  and  wouldn't 
they  please  take  off  their  hats.  They  consented  very 
good-naturedly. ' ' 

"Oh,  good  old  Hugo!    He  got  one  on  the  Browns!" 

"I'd  like  to  have  been  there  to  see  it!" 

"And  when  they  took  off  their  hats,  what  then?" 

"Why,  I  said:  'This  isn't  convincing  at  all.'  "  Hugo's 
drawl  paused  for  a  second  while  interest  developed. 
"  'You  haven't  any  horns!  Haven't  you  any  forked 
tails,  either?  Or  are  they  curled  up  nicely  inside  your 
trousers'  legs? ' ' 

"Whew!  But  they  must  have  felt  cheap  to  have 
been  got  in  that  way!" 

"And  old  Hugo  looking  so  solemn!" 

"Just  like  he  does  now!" 

But  the  judge's  son  said  under  his  breath,  "Very 
pretty!"  and  the  doctor's  son,  who  was  next  him  in  the 
ranks,  nodded  understandingly. 

"It  seems  they  had  checked  their  horns  and  tails  at 
the  frontier,"  Hugo  continued,  "and,  as  I  had  left  mine 
hanging  in  the  rifle  racks  at  the  barracks,  we  got  on 
together  like  real  human  beings.  I  found  they  could 
speak  my  language  better  than  my  lesson-book  try  at 
theirs — yes,  as  well  as  I  can  speak  it  myself — and  that 
made  it  all  the  easier.  After  a  while  I  mentioned  the 
war.  They  were  very  amiable  and  they  didn't  begin 
to  call  me  a  swill-eating  land-shark  or  any  other  of  the 
pretty  names  I've  heard  they  are  so  fond  of  using. 
'We  want  to  keep  what  is  ours/  they  said.  'Your  side 
will  have  to  start  the  fight  by  crossing  the  line.  We 
shall  not!'" 

"Because  they  know  they'll  be  licked!"  put  in  Pilzer 
hotly. 


160  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"No,  we  may  beat  them  in  fighting/'  agreed  Hugo, 
"but  these  two  fellows  had  me  beaten  on  the  argu 
ment!" 

"They  hauled  down  our  flag!  They  insulted  us  in 
their  despatches!  They  quibble!  They're  the  perfidious 
Browns!"  cried  big  Eugene  Aronson,  speaking  the  lesson 
taught  him  by  the  newspapers,  which  had  it  from  the 
premier. 

"There,  he's  got  you  again,  Gene!" 

"Yes,  you  funny  old  simpleton!  You  are  almost  too 
easy!" 

There  was  something  of  the  vivacity  of  the  barrack- 
room  banter  in  the  exclamations  at  Eugene's  expense. 
Yet  they  were  not  the  same.  The  look  on  no  man's 
face  was  the  same.  The  humorist  was  silent. 

"What  next,  Hugo?" 

He  half  stared  at  them,  and  his  mask  was  not  solemn 
but  tragic. 

"I  was  thinking  how  men  work  their  courage  up,  as  if 
patriotism  were  a  Moloch  of  which  they  were  afraid," 
he  said.  "How  in  order  to  get  killed  we  go  out  to  kill 
others,  when  right  is  on  their  side!  How  you,  Armand, 
or  you,  Eugene,  might  be  dead  before  to-morrow! 
How- 

"The  bullet  is  not  made  that  will  get  me!"  exclaimed 
Eugene,  with  a  swelling  breath  from  his  bellows-like 
lungs. 

"Take  him  home  to  mother!"  groaned  Pilzer. 

"That  will  do  for  you,  Hugo  Mallin!"  came  another 
interruption,  a  sharp  one  from  Captain  Fracasse,  who 
had  returned  unobserved  from  the  rear  in  time  to  over 
hear  Hugo's  remarks.  "And  that's  the  way  to  talk, 
Aronson  and  Pilzer.  As  for  you,  Mallin,  I've  a  mind 
to  put  you  under  arrest  and  send  you  back  for  a  coward ! 
A  coward — do  you  hear?" 

"Ah-h!"  breathed  Pilzer  in  a  guttural  of  satisfaction. 

Hugo  crimsoned  at  first  in  confusion,  then  he  looked 
frankly  and  unflinchingly  at  the  captain. 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE  161 

"Very  well,  sir!"  he  said  with  a  certain  dignity  which 
Fracasse,  who  was  a  good  deal  of  a  martinet,  found  very 
irritating. 

"No,  that  would  suit  you  too  well!"  Fracasse  de 
clared.  "You  shall  stay!  You  shall  do  the  duty  for 
which  your  country  trained  you  and  take  your  share  of 
the  chances." 

"Yes,  sir!"  answered  Hugo.  "But  won't  you,"  he 
asked  persuasively  and  with  the  wondering  inquiry  of 
the  suggestion  that  had  sprung  into  his  heretic  brain, 
"won't  you  ask  the  men  if  there  are  not  some  here  who 
really  in  their  hearts,  the  logic  of  their  hearts — which 
is  often  better  than  brain  logic — do  not  believe  just  as  I 
do?" 

"Have  you  gone  insane?  There  are  none!"  In  the 
impulse  of  anger  that  swept  his  cheeks  with  a  red  wave 
Fracasse  half  drew  his  sword  as  if  he  would  strike  Hugo. 
"And,  Mallin,  you  are  a  marked  man.  I  shall  watch 
you!  I'll  have  the  lieutenants  and  sergeants  watch 
you.  At  the  first  sign  of  flunking  I'll  make  an  example 
of  you!" 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Hugo,  with  the  automatic  def 
erence  of  private  to  officer  but  with  a  reserved  and  stu 
dious  inquiry  that  made  the  captain  bite  his  lip. 

"I'll  have  Aronson  and  Pilzer  watch  you,  too!"  Fra 
casse  added. 

"Yes,  sir!"  said  Pilzer  promptly. 

Then,  under  the  restraint  of  the  captain's  presence, 
there  was  a  silence  that  endured.  The  men  were  left 
to  the  sole  resource  of  their  thoughts  and  observation 
of  their  surroundings.  They  were  lying  in  a  pasture 
facing  the  line  of  white  posts  whose  tops  ran  in  an  even 
row  over  level  ground.  On  the  other  side  of  the  bound 
ary  was  a  wheat-field.  Here  a  farmer  had  commenced 
his  fall  ploughing.  His  plough  was  in  the  furrow  where 
he  had  left  it  when  he  unhitched  his  team  for  the  day, 
before  an  orderly  had  come  to  tell  him  that  he  must 
move  out  of  his  house  overnight.  The  wheat  stubble 
swept  on  up  to  a  knoll  in  the  distance. 


162  THE  LAST  SHOT 

All  the  landscape  in  front  of  Fracasse's  company 
seemed  to  have  been  deserted;  no  moving  figures  were 
anywhere  in  sight;  no  sign  of  the  enemy's  infantry.  No 
trains  came  or  went  along  the  lines  of  steel  into  the 
mountain  tunnel,  which  had  been  mined  at  a  dozen 
points  by  the  Browns.  No  vehicles  and  no  foot-pas 
sengers  dotted  the  highway  into  the  town.  Over  the 
mountains  and  over  the  plain,  planes  and  dirigibles 
moved  in  wide  circles  restively,  watching  for  a  signal 
as  hawks  watch  for  prey.  Suspense  this — suspense  of 
such  a  swift  vibration  that  it  was  like  a  taut  G  string 
of  a  violin  under  the  bow! 

Faintly  the  town  clock  was  heard  striking  the  hour. 
From  eight  to  nine  and  nine  to  ten  Fracasse's  men 
waited ;  waited  until  the  machine  was  ready  and  Wester- 
ling  should  throw  in  the  clutch;  waited  until  the  troops 
were  in  place  for  the  first  move  before  he  hurled  his 
battalions  forward.  Every  pawn  of  flesh  facing  the 
white  posts  had  a  thousand  thoughts  whirling  in  such  a 
medley  that  he  could  be  said  to  have  no  thought  at  all, 
only  an  impression  juggled  by  destiny.  No  one  would 
have  confessed  what  he  felt,  while  physical  inactivity 
gave  free  rein  to  mental  activity.  That  thing  of  a 
nation's  nightmare;  that  thing  for  which  generations 
had  drilled  without  its  materializing;  that  thing  of 
speculation,  of  hazard,  of  horror;  that  thing  of  quick 
action  and  long-enduring  consequences  was  coming. 

They  did  not  know  how  the  captain  at  their  back  re 
ceived  his  orders;  they  only  heard  the  note  of  the  whis 
tle,  with  a  command  familiar  to  a  trained  instinct  on 
the  edge  of  anticipation.  It  released  a  spring  in  their 
nerve-centres.  They  responded  as  the  wheels  respond 
when  the  throttle  is  opened.  Jumping  to  their  feet  they 
broke  into  a  run,  bodies  bent,  heads  down,  like  the 
peppered  silhouette  that  faced  Westerling's  desk.  What 
they  had  done  repeatedly  in  drills  and  manoeuvres  they 
were  now  doing  in  war,  mechanically  as  marionettes. 

"Come  on!  The  bullet  is  not  made  that  can  get  me! 
Come  on!"  cried  the  giant  Eugene  Aronson. 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE  163 

He  leaped  over  a  white  post  and  then  over  the  plough, 
which  was  also  in  his  path.  Little  Peterkin  felt  his  legs 
trembling.  They  seemed  to  be  detached  from  his  will, 
and  the  company's  and  the  captain's  will,  and  churning 
in  pantomime  or  not  moving  at  all.  If  Hugo  Mallin 
had  been  called  a  coward,  what  of  himself?  What  of 
the  stupid  of  the  company,  who  would  never  learn  even 
the  manual  of  arms  correctly,  as  the  drill-sergeant  often 
said?  A  new  fear  made  him  glance  around.  He 
would  not  have  been  surprised  to  find  that  he  was 
already  in  the  rear.  But  instead  he  found  that  he  was 
keeping  up,  which  was  all  that  was  necessary,  as  more 
than  one  other  man  assured  his  legs.  After  thirty  or 
forty  yards  most  of  the  legs,  if  not  Peterkin's,  had  worked 
out  their  shiver  and  nearly  all  felt  the  exhilaration  of 
movement  in  company.  Then  came  the  sound  that 
generations  had  drilled  for  without  hearing;  the  sound 
that  summons  the  imagination  of  man  in  the  thought 
of  how  he  will  feel  and  act  when  he  hears  it;  the  sound 
that  is  everywhere  like  the  song  snatches  of  bees  driven 
whizzing  through  the  air. 

"That's  it!  We're  under  fire!  We're  under  fire!" 
flashed  as  crooked  lightning  recognition  of  the  sound 
through  every  brain. 

There  was  no  sign  of  any  enemy;  no  telling  where  the 
bullets  came  from. 

"Such  a  lot  of  them,  one  must  surely  get  me!"  Peter- 
kin  thought. 

Whish-whish!  Th-ipp-whing!  The  refrain  gripped 
his  imagination  with  an  unseen  hand.  He  seemed  to 
be  suffocating.  He  wanted  to  throw  himself  down  and 
hold  his  hands  in  front  of  his  head.  While  Pilzer  and 
Aronson  were  not  thinking,  only  running,  Peterkin  was 
thinking  with  the  rapidity  of  a  man  falling  from  a  high 
building.  Worse!  He  did  not  know  how  far  he  had  to 
go.  He  was  certain  only  that  he  was  bound  to  strike 
ground. 

"An  inch  is  as  good  as  a  mile!"    He  recollected  the 


164  THE  LAST  SHOT 

captain's  teaching.  "Only  one  of  a  thousand  bullets 
fired  in  war  ever  kills  a  man" — but  he  was  certain  that 
he  had  heard  a  million  already.  Then  one  passed  very 
close,  its  swift  breath  brushing  his  cheek  with  a  whistle 
like  a  s-s-st  through  the  teeth.  He  dodged  so  hard  that 
he  might  have  dislocated  his  neck;  he  gasped  and  half 
stumbled,  but  realized  that  he  had  not  been  hit.  And 
he  must  keep  right  on  going,  driven  by  one  fear  against 
another,  in  face  of  those  ghastly  whispers  which  the 
others,  for  the  most  part,  in  the  excitement  of  a  charge, 
had  ceased  to  hear. 

Again  he  would  be  sure  that  his  legs,  which  he  was 
urging  so  frantically  to  their  duty,  were  not  playing  pan 
tomime.  He  looked  around  to  find  that  he  was  still 
keeping  up  with  Eugene  and  felt  the  thrill  of  the  bravery 
of  fellowship  at  sight  of  the  giant's  flushed,  confident  face 
revelling  in  the  spirit  of  a  charge.  And  then,  just  then, 
Eugene  convulsively  threw  up  his  arms,  dropped  his 
rifle,  and  whirled  on  his  heel.  As  he  went  down  his 
hand  clutched  at  his  left  breast  and  came  away  red 
and  dripping.  After  one  wild,  backward  glance,  Peter- 
kin  plunged  ahead. 

" Eugene!"  Hugo  Mallin  had  stopped  and  bent  over 
Eugene  in  the  supreme  instinct  of  that  terrible  second, 
supporting  his  comrade's  head. 

"The  bullet  is  not — made —  "  Eugene  whispered,  the 
ruling  passion  strong  to  the  last.  A  flicker  of  the  eye 
lids,  a  gurgle  in  the  throat,  and  he  was  dead. 

Fracasse  had  been  right  behind  them.  The  sight  of 
a  man  falling  was  something  for  which  he  was  prepared; 
something  inevitably  a  part  of  the  game.  A  man  down 
was  a  man  out  of  the  fight,  service  finished.  A  man  up 
with  a  rifle  in  his  hand  was  a  man  who  ought  to  be  in 
action. 

"Here,  you  are  not  going  to  get  out  this  way!"  he 
said  in  the  irritation  of  haste,  slapping  Hugo  with  his 
sword.  "Go  on!  That's  hospital-corps  work." 

Hugo  had  a  glimpse  of  the  captain's  rigid  features  and 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE  165 

a  last  one  of  Eugene's,  white  and  still  and  yet  as  if  he 
were  about  to  speak  his  favorite  boast;  then  he  hurried 
on,  his  side  glance  showing  other  prostrate  forms.  One 
form  a  few  yards  away  half  rose  to  call  " Hospital!'* 
and  fell  back,  struck  mortally  by  a  second  bullet. 

" That's  what  you  get  if  you  forget  instructions,"  said 
Fracasse  with  no  sense  of  brutality,  only  professional 
exasperation.  "Keep  down,  you  wounded  men!"  he 
shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 

The  colonel  of  the  i28th  had  not  looked  for  immediate 
resistance.  He  had  told  Fracasse's  men  to  occupy  the 
knoll  expeditiously.  But  by  the  common  impulse  of 
military  training,  no  less  than  in  answer  to  the  whistle's 
call,  in  face  of  the  withering  fire  they  dropped  to  earth 
at  the  base  of  the  knoll,  where  Hugo  threw  himself  down 
at  full  length  in  his  place  in  line  next  to  Peterkin. 

"Fire  pointblank  at  the  crest  in  front  of  you!  I  saw 
a  couple  of  men  standing  up  there!"  called  Fracasse- 
"Fire  fast!  That's  the  way  to  keep  down  their  fire — 
pointblank,  I  tell  you!  You're  firing  into  the  sky!  I 
want  to  see  more  dust  kicked  up.  Fire  fast!  We'll 
have  them  out  of  there  soon!  They're  only  an  outpost." 

Hugo  was  firing  vaguely,  like  a  man  in  a  dream,  and 
thinking  that  maybe  up  there  on  the  knoll  were  the  two 
Browns  he  had  met  on  the  road  and  perhaps  their  com 
rades  were  as  fond  of  them  as  he  was  of  Eugene.  It  is 
a  mistake  for  a  soldier  to  think  much,  as  Westerling  had 
repeatedly  said. 

Pilzer  was  shooting  to  kill.  His  eye  had  the  steely 
gleam  of  his  rifle  sight  and  the  liver  patch  on  his  cheek 
was  a  deeper  hue  as  he  sought  to  avenge  Eugene's 
death.  Drowned  by  the  racket  of  their  own  fire,  not 
even  Peterkin  was  hearing  the  whish-whish  of  the  bul 
lets  from  Dellarme's  company  now.  He  did  not  know 
that  the  blacksmith's  son,  who  was  the  fourth  man  from 
him,  lay  with  his  chin  on  his  rifle  stock  and  a  tiny  trickle 
of  blood  from  a  hole  in  his  forehead  running  down  the 
bridge  of  his  nose. 


166  THE  LAST  SHOT 

Fracasse,  glancing  along  from  rifle  to  rifle,  as  a  weaver 
watches  the  threads  of  a  machine  loom,  saw  that  Hugo 
was  firing  at  too  high  an  angle. 

"Mallin!"  he  called.  Hugo  did  not  hear  because  of 
the  noise,  and  Fracasse  had  to  creep  nearer,  which  was 
anything  but  cooling  to  his  temper.  "You  fool!  You 
are  shooting  fifty  feet  above  the  top  of  the  knoll !  Look 
along  your  sight!"  he  yelled. 

Fracasse  observed,  with  some  surprise,  that  Hugo's 
hand  was  steady  as  he  carefully  drew  a  bead.  Hugo 
saw  a  spurt  of  dust  at  the  point  slightly  below  the  crest 
where  he  aimed;  for  he  was  the  best  shot  in  the  company 
at  target  practice. 

"I'm  not  killing  anybody!"  he  thought  happily. 


XIX 

RECEIVING  THE  CHARGE 

WHAT  about  Stransky  of  the  Reds,  who  would  not 
fight  to  please  the  ruling  classes?  What  about  Grand 
father  Fragini,  who  would  fight  on  principle  whenever  a 
Gray  was  in  sight?  Now  we  leave  the  story  of  Fra- 
casse's  men  at  the  foot  of  the  knoll  for  that  of  the  Browns 
on  the  crest. 

Young  Dellarme,  new  to  his  captain's  rank,  with  lips 
pressed  tightly  together,  his  delicately  moulded,  boyish 
features  reflecting  the  confidence  which  it  was  his  duty 
to  inspire  in  his  company,  watching  the  plain  through 
his  glasses,  saw  the  movement  of  mounted  officers  to 
the  rear  of  the  i28th  as  a  reason  for  summoning  his  men. 

"Creep  up!  Don't  show  yourselves!  Creep  up— 
carefully — carefully!"  he  kept  repeating  as  they  crawled 
forward  on  their  stomachs.  "And  no  one  is  to  fire  until 
the  command  comes." 

Hugging  the  cover  of  the  ridge  of  fresh  earth  which 
they  had  thrown  up  the  previous  night,  they  watched 
the  white  posts.  Stransky,  who  had  been  ruminatively 
silent  all  the  morning,  was  in  his  place,  but  he  was  not 
looking  at  the  enemy.  Cautiously,  to  avoid  a  repri 
mand,  he  raised  his  head  to  enable  him  to  glance  along 
the  line.  All  the  faces  seemed  drawn  and  clayish. 

"They  don't  want  to  fight!  They're  just  here  be 
cause  they're  ordered  here  and  haven't  the  character  to 
defy  authority,"  he  thought.  "The  leaven  is  working! 
My  time  is  coming!" 

But  Grandfather  Fragini's  cheeks  had  a  hectic  flush; 
his  heart  was  beating  with  the  exhilaration  of  an  old 

167 


i68  THE  LAST  SHOT 

war-horse.  Looking  over  Tom's  shoulder,  he  squinted 
into  the  distance,  his  underlip  quivering  against  his 
toothless  gums. 

"My  eyesight's  kind  of  uncertain,"  he  said.  "Can 
you  see  'em?" 

"There  by  the  white  posts — those  lying  figures!"  said 
Tom.  "They're  almost  the  color  of  the  stubble." 

" So  I  do,  the  —  -  land-sharks!  Down  on  their  bellies, 
too!  No  flag,  either!  But  that  ain't  no  reason  why  we 
shouldn't  have  a  flag.  It  ought  to  be  waving  at  'em  in 
defiance  right  over  our  heads!" 

"Flags  draw  fire.  They  let  the  enemy  know  where 
you  are,"  Tom  explained. 

"The  Hussars  didn't  bother  about  that.  We  let 
out  a  yell  and  went  after  'em!"  growled  grandfather. 
"Appears  to  me  the  fighting  these  days  is  grovelling  in 
the  dirt  and  taking  care  nobody  don't  get  hurt!" 

"Oh,  there'll  be  enough  hurt — don't  you  worry  about 
that!"  said  a  voice  from  the  line. 

"Good  thing  an  old  fellow  who's  been  under  fire  is 
along  to  stiffen  you  rookies!"  replied  grandfather  tartly. 
"You'll  be  all  right  once  you  get  going.  You'll  settle 
down  to  be  real  soldiers  yet.  And  I'd  like  to  hear  a 
little  more  cussing.  How  the  Hussars  used  to  cuss! 
Too  much  reading  and  writing  nowadays.  It  makes 
men  too  ladylike." 

By  this  time  he  had  once  more  attracted  the  captain's 
attention. 

"Grandfather  Fragini,  you  must  drop  back — you 
must!  If  you  don't,  I'll  have  you  carried  back!"  called 
Dellarme,  sparing  the  old  man  only  a  glance  from  his 
concentrated  observation  on  the  front. 

When  he  looked  again  at  the  enemy  any  thought  of 
carrying  out  his  threat  vanished,  for  the  minute  had 
come  when  all  his  training  was  to  be  put  to  a  test.  The 
figures  on  the  other  side  of  the  white  posts  were  rising. 
He  was  to  prove  by  the  way  he  directed  a  company  of 
infantry  in  action  whether  or  not  he  was  wxorthy  of  his 


RECEIVING  THE  CHARGE  169 

captain's  rank.  He  breathed  one  of  those  unspoken 
prayers  that  are  made  to  the  god  of  one's  own  efficient, 
conscientious  responsibility  to  duty.  The  words  of  it 
were:  "May  I  keep  my  head  as  if  I  were  at  drill!"  Then 
he  smiled  cheerily.  In  order  that  he  might  watch  how 
each  man  used  his  rifle,  he  drew  back  of  the  line,  his  slim 
body  erect  as  he  rested  on  one  knee,  his  head  level  with 
the  other  heads  while  he  fingered  his  whistle.  His 
lieutenants  followed  his  example  even  to  the  detail  of 
his  cheery  smile.  There  was  a  slight  stirring  of  heads 
and  arms  as  eyes  drew  beads  on  human  targets.  The 
instant  that  Eugene  Aronson  sprang  over  the  white  post 
a  blast  from  Dellarme's  whistle  began  the  war. 

It  was  a  signal,  too,  for  Stransky  to  play  the  part  he 
had  planned;  to  make  the  speech  of  his  life.  His  six 
feet  of  stature  shot  to  its  feet  with  a  Jack-in-the-box 
abruptness,  under  the  impulse  of  a  mighty  and  reckless 
passion. 

"Men,  stop  firing!"  he  cried  thunderously.  "Stop 
firing  on  your  brothers!  Like  you,  they  are  only  the 
pawns  of  the  ruling  class,  who  keep  us  all  pawns  in  order 
that  they  may  have  champagne  and  caviare.  Comrades, 
I'll  lead  you!  Comrades,  we'll  take  a  white  flag  and 
go  down  to  meet  our  comrades  and  we'll  find  that  they 
think  as  we  do!  I'll  lead  you!" 

Grandfather  Fragini,  impelled  by  the  hysterical  call 
of  the  Hussar  spirit,  also  sprang  up,  waving  his  hat  and 
trembling  and  swaying  with  the  emotion  that  racked  his 
old  body. 

"Give  it  to  'em!  Aim  low!  Give  it  to  'em — give  it 
to  'em,  horns  and  hoofs,  sabre  and  carbine!"  he  shouted 
in  a  high,  jumpy  voice.  "Give  it  to  'em!  Make  'em 
weep!  Make  'em  whine!  Make  'em  bellow!" 

Both  appeals  were  drowned  in  the  cracking  of  the 
rifles  working  as  regularly  as  punching-machines  in  a 
factory.  Every  soldier  was  seeing  only  his  sight  and 
the  running  figures  under  it.  Mechanically  and  auto 
matically,  training  had  been  projected  into  action, 


1 70  THE  LAST  SHOT 

anticipation  into  realization.  A  spectator  might  as 
well  have  called  to  a  man  in  a  hundred-yard  dash  to 
stop  running,  to  an  oarsman  in  a  race  to  jump  out  of 
his  shell. 

So  centred  was  Dellarme  in  watching  his  men  and 
the  effect  of  their  fire  that  he  did  not  notice  the  two 
silhouettes  on  the  sky-line,  making  ridicule  of  all  his  care 
about  keeping  his  company  under  cover,  until  the  doctor, 
who  alone  had  nothing  to  do  as  yet,  touched  him  on 
the  arm.  At  the  moment  he  looked  around,  and  before 
he  could  speak  a  command,  a  hospital-corps  man  who 
was  near  Grandfather  Fragini  threw  himself  in  a  low 
tackle  and  brought  the  old  man  to  earth,  while  the  com 
pany  sergeant  sprang  for  Stransky  with  an  oath.  But 
Stransky  was  in  no  mood  to  submit.  He  felled  the 
sergeant  with  a  blow  and,  recklessly  defiant,  stared  at 
Dellarme,  while  the  men,  steadily  firing,  were  still  ob 
livious  of  the  scene.  The  sergeant,  stunned,  rose  to 
his  knees  and  reached  for  his  revolver.  Dellarme,  bent 
over  to  keep  his  head  below  the  crest,  had  already 
drawn  his  as  he  hastened  toward  them. 

"Stransky,"  said  Dellarme,  "you  have  struck  an 
officer  under  fire!  You  have  refused  to  fight!  Within 
the  law  I  am  warranted  in  shooting  you  dead!" 

"Well!"  answered  Stransky,  throwing  back  his  head, 
his  face  seeming  all  big,  bony  nose  and  heavy  jaw  and 
burning  eyes. 

"Will  you  get  down?  Will  you  take  your  place  with 
your  rifle?"  demanded  Dellarme. 

Stransky  laughed  thunderously  in  scorn.  He  was 
handsome,  titanic,  and  barbaric,  with  his  huge  shoulders 
stretching  his  blouse,  which  fell  loosely  around  his 
narrow  hips,  while  the  fist  that  had  felled  the  sergeant 
was  still  clenched. 

"No!"  said  Stransky.  "You  won't  kill  much  if  you 
kill  me  and  you'd  kill  less  if  you  shot  yourself!  God 
Almighty!  Do  you  think  I'm  afraid?  Me — afraid?" 

His  eyes  in  a  bloodshot  glare,  as  uncompromising  as 


RECEIVING  THE  CHARGE  171 

those  of  a  bull  in  an  arena  watching  the  next  move  of 
the  red  cape  of  the  matador,  regarded  Dellarme,  who 
hesitated  in  the  revulsion  of  the  horror  of  killing  and  in 
admiration  of  the  picture  of  human  force  before  him. 
But  the  old  sergeant,  smarting  under  the  insult  of  the 
blow,  his  sandstone  features  mottled  with  red  patches, 
had  no  compunctions  of  this  order.  He  was  ready  to  act 
as  executioner. 

"If  you  don't  want  to  shoot,  I  can!  An  example— 
the  law!  There's  no  other  way  of  dealing  with  him! 
Give  the  word!"  he  said  to  Dellarme. 

Stransky  laughed,  now  in  strident  cynicism.  It  was 
the  laugh  of  the  red,  of  bastardy,  of  blanketless  nights 
in  the  hedgerows,  and  boot  soles  worn  through  to  the 
macadam,  with  the  dust  of  speeding  automobiles  blown 
in  the  gaunt  face  of  hunger.  Dellarme  still  hesitated, 
recollecting  Lanstron's  remark.  He  pictured  Stransky 
in  a  last  stand  in  a  redoubt,  and  every  soldier  was  as 
precious  to  him  as  a  piece  of  gold  to  a  miser. 

"One  ought  to  be  enough  to  kill  me  if  you're  going 
to  do  it  to  slow  music,"  said  Stransky.  "You  might 
as  well  kill  me  as  the  poor  fools  that  your  poor  fools  are 
trying  to— 

Another  breath  finished  the  speech;  a  breath  released 
from  a  ball  that  seemed  to  have  come  straight  from  hell. 
The  fire-control  officer  of  a  regiment  of  Gray  artillery  on 
the  plain,  scanning  the  landscape  for  the  origin  of  the 
rifle-fire  which  was  leaving  many  fallen  in  the  wake  of 
the  charge  of  the  Gray  infantry,  had  seen  two  figures  on 
the  knoll.  "How  kind!  Thank  you!"  his  thought 
spoke  faster  than  words.  No  need  of  range-finding! 
The  range  to  every  possible  battery  or  infantry  position 
around  La  Tir  was  already  marked  on  his  map.  He 
passed  the  word  to  his  guns. 

The  burst  of  their  first  shrapnel-shell  blinded  all  three 
actors  in  the  scene  on  the  crest  of  the  knoll  with  its  ear- 
splitting  crack  and  the  force  of  its  concussion  threw 
Stransky  down  beside  the  sergeant.  Dellarme,  as  his 


172  THE  LAST  SHOT 

vision  cleared,  had  just  time  to  see  Stransky  jerk  his 
hand  up  to  his  temple,  where  there  was  a  red  spot, 
before  another  shell  burst,  a  little  to  the  rear.  This  was 
harmless,  as  a  shrapnel's  shower  of  fragments  and  bul 
lets  carry  forward  from  the  point  of  explosion.  But  the 
next  burst  in  front  of  the  line.  The  doctor's  period  of 
idleness  was  over.  One  man's  rifle  shot  up  as  his  spine 
was  broken  by  a  jagged  piece  of  shrapnel  jacket.  Now 
there  were  too  many  shells  to  watch  them  individually. 

"It's  all  right — all  right,  men!"  Dellarme  called  again, 
assuming  his  cheery  smile.  "It  takes  a  lot  of  shrapnel 
to  kill  anybody.  Our  batteries  will  soon  answer!" 

His  voice  was  unheard,  yet  its  spirit  was  felt.  The 
men  knew  through  their  training  that  there  was  no  use 
of  dodging  and  that  their  best  protection  was  an  accurate 
fire  of  their  own. 

"  Shelling  us,  the  -  - ! "  gasped  Grandfather 

Fragini,  who  had  experience,  if  he  were  weak  in  reading 
and  writing.  "All  noise  and  smoke!" — as  it  was  to  a 
larger  degree  in  his  day. 

Stransky  had  half  risen,  a  new  kind  of  savagery 
dawning  on  his  features  as  he  regained  his  wits.  With 
inverted  eyes  he  regarded  the  red  ends  of  his  fingers, 
held  in  line  with  the  bridge  of  his  nose.  He  felt  of  the 
wound  again,  now  that  he  was  less  dizzy.  It  was  only  a 
scratch  and  he  had  been  knocked  down  like  a  beef  in 
an  abattoir  by  an  unseen  enemy,  on  whom  he  could  not 
lay  hands!  He  glared  around  as  if  in  search  of  the 
hidden  antagonist.  The  sergeant  had  crept  forward  to 
be  a  steadying  influence  to  the  men  in  their  first  trial, 
if  need  be,  and  the  doctor  and  a  hospital-corps  man 
were  dragging  a  wounded  man  out  of  line  without  ex 
posing  their  own  shoulders  above  the  crest.  Stransky 
rolled  his  eyes  in  and  out ;  the  tendons  of  his  neck  swelled ; 
his  jaw  worked  as  if  crunching  pebbles.  Deafeningly, 
the  shrapnel  jackets  continued  to  crack  with  "ukung- 
s-sh — ukung-s-sh"  as  the  swift  breath  of  the  shrapnel 
missiles  spread. 


RECEIVING  THE  CHARGE  173 

"Give  it  to  'em!  Give  it  to  'em!"  Grandfather  Fra- 
gini  cried,  his  old  voice  a  quavering  bird  note  in  the 
pandemonium.  "My,  but  they  do  come  fast!"  he 
gasped. 

Yes,  a  trifle  faster  than  in  your  day,  grandfather, 
when  a  gun  of  the  horse- artillery  had  to  be  relaid  after 
the  recoil,  which  is  now  taken  up  by  an  oil  chamber, 
while  the  gunner  on  his  seat  behind  the  breech  keeps  the 
sight  steady  on  the  target.  The  guns  of  one  battery  of 
that  Gray  regiment  of  artillery,  each  firing  six  fourteen- 
pound  shells  a  minute  methodically,  every  shell  loaded 
with  nearly  two  hundred  projectiles,  were  giving  their 
undivided  attention  to  the  knoll. 

How  long  could  his  company  endure  this?  Dellarme 
might  well  ask.  He  knew  that  he  would  not  be  expected 
to  withdraw  yet.  With  a  sense  of  relief  he  saw  Fra- 
casse's  men  drop  for  cover  at  the  base  of  the  knoll  and 
then,  expectation  fulfilled,  he  realized  that  rifle-fire  now 
reinforced  the  enemy's  shell  fire.  His  duty  was  to  re 
main  while  he  could  hold  his  men,  and  a  feeling  toward 
them  such  as  he  had  never  felt  before,  which  was  love, 
sprang  full-fledged  into  his  heart  as  he  saw  how  steadily 
they  kept  up  their  fusillade. 

The  sergeant,  who  now  had  time  to  think  of  Stransky, 
was  seized  with  a  spasm  of  retributive  rage.  He  drew 
his  revolver  determinedly. 

"You  brought  this  on!  I'll  do  for  you!"  he  cried, 
turning  toward  the  spot  where  he  had  left  Stransky,  only 
to  lower  his  revolver  in  amazement  as  he  saw  Stransky, 
eager  in  response  to  a  new  passion,  spring  forward  into 
place  and  pick  up  his  rifle. 

"If  you  will  not  have  it  my  way,  take  it  yours!"  said 
the  best  shot  in  the  company,  as  he  began  firing  with 
resolute  coolness. 

"They  have  a  lot  of  men  down,"  said  Dellarme,  his 
glasses  showing  the  many  prostrate  figures  on  the  wheat 
stubble.  "Steady!  steady!  We  have  plenty  of  bat 
teries  back  in  the  hills.  One  will  be  in  action  soon." 


174  THE  LAST  SHOT 

But  would  one?  He  understood  that  with  their  smoke 
less  powder  the  Gray  guns  could  be  located  only  by 
their  flashes,  which  would  not  be  visible  unless  the  re 
fraction  of  light  were  favorable.  Then  "thur-eesh — 
thur-eesh"  above  every  other  sound  in  a  long  wail!  No 
man  ever  forgets  the  first  crack  of  a  shrapnel  at  close 
quarters,  the  first  bullet  breath  on  his  cheek,  or  the  first 
supporting  shell  from  his  side  in  flight  that  passes  above 
him. 

"That  is  ours!"  called  Dellarme. 

"Ours!"  shouted  the  sergeant. 

"Ours!"  sang  the  thought  of  every  one  of  the  men. 

Over  the  Gray  batteries  on  the  plain  an  explosive 
ball  of  smoke  hung  in  the  still  air;  then  another  beside 
it.  "Thur-eesh — thur-eesh — thur-eesh,"  the  screaming 
overhead  became  a  gale  that  built  a  cloud  of  blue  smoke 
over  the  offending  Gray  batteries — beautiful,  soft  blue 
smoke  from  which  a  spray  of  steel  descended.  There 
was  no  spotting  the  flashes  of  the  Browns'  guns  in  order 
to  reply  to  them,  for  they  were  under  the  cover  of  a 
hill,  using  indirect  aim  as  nicely  and  accurately  as  if 
firing  pointblank.  The  gunners  of  the  Gray  batteries 
could  not  go  on  with  their  work  under  such'  a  hail-storm ; 
they  were  checkmated.  They  stopped  firing  and  began 
moving  to  a  new  position,  where  their  commander  hoped 
to  remain  undiscovered  long  enough  to  support  the 
1 28th  by  loosing  his  lightnings  against  the  defenders  at 
the  critical  moment  of  the  next  charge,  which  would  be 
made  as  soon  as  Fracasse's  men  had  been  reinforced. 

There  was  an  end  to  the  concussions  and  the  thrashing 
of  the  air  around  Dellarme 's  men,  and  they  had  the  re 
lief  of  a  breaking  abscess  in  the  ear.  But  they  became 
more  conscious  of  the  spits  of  dust  in  front  of  their  faces 
and  the  passing  whistles  of  bullets.  In  return,  they 
made  the  sections  of  Gray  infantry  in  reserve  rushing 
across  the  levels,  leave  many  gray  lumps  behind.  But 
Fracasse's  men  at  the  foot  of  the  slope  poured  in  a  heav 
ier  and  still  heavier  fire. 


RECEIVING  THE  CHARGE  175 

"Down  there's  where  we  need  the  shells  now!"  spoke 
the  thought  of  Dellarme's  men,  which  he  had  antici 
pated  by  a  word  to  the  signal  corporal,  who  waved  his 
flag  one — two — three — four — five  times.  Come  on,  now, 
with  more  of  your  special  brand  of  death,  fire-control 
officer!  Your  own  head  is  above  the  sky-line,  though 
your  guns  are  hidden.  Five  hundred  yards  beyond  the 
knoll  is  the  range!  Come  on! 

He  came  with  a  burst  of  screams  so  low  in  flight  that 
they  seemed  to  brush  the  back  of  the  men's  necks  with 
a  hair  broom  at  the  rate  of  a  thousand  feet  a  second. 
Having  watched  the  result,  Dellarme  turned  with  a 
confirmatory  gesture,  which  the  corporal  translated  into 
the  wigwag  of  " Correct!"  The  shrapnel  smoke  hanging 
over  Fracasse's  men  appeared  a  heavenly  blue  to  Del 
larme's  men. 

"They  are  going  to  start  for  us  soon!  Oh,  but  we'll 
get  a  lot  of  them!"  whispered  Stransky  gleefully  to  his 
rifle. 

Dellarme  glanced  again  toward  the  colonel's  station. 
No  sign  of  the  retiring  flag.  He  was  glad  of  that.  He 
did  not  want  to  fall  back  in  face  of  a  charge;  to  have 
his  men  silhouetted  in  the  valley  as  they  retreated. 
And  the  Grays  would  not  endure  this  shower-bath  long 
without  going  one  way  or  the  other.  He  gave  the  order 
to  fix  bayonets,  and  hardly  was  it  obeyed  when  he  saw 
flashes  of  steel  through  the  shrapnel  smoke  as  the  Grays 
fixed  theirs.  The  Grays  had  five  hundred  yards  to  go; 
the  Browns  had  the  time  that  it  takes  running  men  to 
cover  the  distance  in  which  to  stop  the  Grays. 

"We'll  spear  any  of  them  who  has  the  luck  to  get  this 
far!"  whispered  Stransky  to  his  rifle.  The  sentence  was 
spoken  in  the  midst  of  a  salvo  of  shrapnel  cracks,  which 
he  did  not  hear.  He  heard  nothing,  thought  nothing, 
except  to  kill. 

The  Gray  batteries  on  the  plain,  having  taken  up  a 
new  position  and  being  reinforced,  played  on  the  crest 
at  top  speed  instantly  the  Gray  line  rose  and  started  up 


176  THE  LAST  SHOT 

the  slope  at  the  run.  With  the  purpose  of  confusing  no 
less  than  killing,  they  used  percussion,  which  burst  on 
striking  the  ground,  as  well  as  shrapnel,  which  burst  by 
a  time-fuse  in  the  air.  Fountains  of  sod  and  dirt  shot  up 
ward  to  meet  descending  sprays  of  bullets.  The  con 
cussions  of  the  earth  shook  the  aim  of  Dellarme's  men, 
blinded  by  smoke  and  dust,  as  they  fired  through  a  fog 
at  bent  figures  whose  legs  were  pumping  fast  in  dim 
pantomime. 

But  the  guns  of  the  Browns,  also,  have  word  that  the 
charge  has  begun.  The  signal  corporal  is  waiting  for 
the  gesture  from  Dellarme  agreed  upon  as  an  announce 
ment.  The  Brown  artillery  commander  cuts  his  fuses 
two  hundred  and  fifty  yards  shorter.  He,  too,  uses 
percussion  for  moral  effect. 

Half  of  the  distance  from  the  foot  to  the  crest  of  the 
knoll  Fracasse's  men  have  gone  in  face  of  the  hot,  sizzling 
tornado  of  bullets,  when  there  is  a  blast  of  explosions  in 
their  faces  with  all  the  chaotic  and  irresistible  force  of  a 
volcanic  eruption.  Not  only  are  they  in  the  midst  of  the 
first  lot  of  the  Browns'  shells  at  the  shorter  range,  but 
one  Gray  battery  has  either  made  a  mistake  in  cutting 
its  fuses  or  struck  a  streak  of  powder  below  standard, 
and  its  shells  burst  among  those  whom  it  is  aiming  to 
assist. 

The  ground  seems  rising  under  the  feet  of  Fracasse's 
company;  the  air  is  split  and  racked  and  wrenched  and 
torn  with  hideous  screams  of  invisible  demons.  The  men 
stop;  they  act  on  the  uncontrollable  instinct  of  self- 
preservation  against  an  overwhelming  force  of  nature. 
A  few  without  the  power  of  locomotion  drop,  faces 
pressed  to  the  ground.  The  rest  flee  toward  a  shoulder 
of  the  slope  through  the  instinct  that  leads  a  hunted  man 
in  a  street  into  an  alley.  In  a  confusion  of  arms  and 
legs,  pressing  one  on  the  other,  no  longer  soldiers,  only 
a  mob,  they  throw  themselves  behind  the  first  protection 
that  offers  itself.  Fracasse  also  runs.  He  runs  from  the 
flame  of  a  furnace  door  suddenly  thrown  open. 


RECEIVING  THE  CHARGE  177 

The  Gray  batteries  have  ceased  firing;  certain  gunners' 
ears  burn  under  the  words  of  inquiry  as  to  the  cause  of 
the  mistake  from  an  artillery  commander.  Dellarme's 
men  are  hugging  the  earth  too  close  to  cheer.  A  de 
sire  to  spring  up  and  yell  may  be  in  their  hearts,  but 
they  know  the  danger  of  showing  a  single  unnecessary 
inch  of  their  craniums  above  the  sky-line.  The  sounds 
that  escape  their  throats  are  those  of  a  winning  team 
at  a  tug  of  war  as  diaphragms  relax. 

With  the  smoke  clearing,  they  see  twenty  or  thirty 
Grays  plastered  on  the  slope  at  the  point  where  the 
charge  was  checked.  Every  one  of  those  prostrate 
forms  is  within  fatal  range.  Not  one  moves  a  finger; 
even  the  living  are  feigning  death  in  the  hope  of  sur 
viving.  Among  them  is  little  Peterkin,  so  faithful  in 
forcing  his  refractory  legs  to  keep  pace  with  his  com 
rades.  If  he  is  always  up  with  them  they  will  never 
know  what  is  in  his  heart  and  call  him  a  coward.  As 
he  has  been  knocked  unconscious,  he  has  not  been  in  the 
pell-mell  retreat. 

His  first  stabbing  thought  on  coming  to  was  that  he 
must  be  dead;  but,  no;  he  was  opening  his  eyes  sticky 
with  dust.  At  least,  he  must  be  wounded !  He  had  not 
power  yet  to  move  his  hands  in  order  to  feel  where, 
and  when  they  grew  alive  enough  to  move,  what  he 
saw  in  front  of  him  held  them  frigidly  still.  His  nerves 
went  searching  from  his  head  to  his  feet  and — miracle 
of  Heaven! — found  no  point  of  pain  or  spot  soppy  with 
blood.  If  he  were  really  hit  there  was  bound  to  be  one 
or  the  other,  he  knew  from  reading. 

Between  him  and  the  faces  of  the  Browns — yes,  the 
actual,  living,  terrible  Browns — above  the  glint  of  their 
rifle  barrels,  was  no  obstacle  that  could  stop  a  bullet, 
though  not  more  than  three  feet  away  was  a  crater  made 
by  a  shell  burst.  The  black  circle  of  every  muzzle  on  the 
crest  seemed  to  be  pointing  at  him.  When  were  they 
going  to  shoot?  When  was  he  to  be  executed?  Would 
he  be  shot  in  many  places  and  die  thus?  Or  would  the 


i78  THE  LAST  SHOT 

very  first  bullet  go  through  his  head?  Why  didn't  they 
fire?  What  were  they  waiting  for?  The  suspense  was 
unbearable.  The  desperation  of  overwhelming  fear  driv 
ing  him  in  irresponsible  impulse,  he  doubled  up  his  legs 
and  with  a  cat's  leap  sprang  for  the  crater. 

A  blood-curdling  burst  of  whistles  passed  over  his 
head  as  a  dozen  rifles  cracked.  This  time  he  was 
surely  killed!  He  was  in  some  other  world!  Which 
was  it,  the  good  or  the  bad?  The  good,  for  he  had  a 
glimpse  of  blue  sky.  No,  that  could  not  be,  for  he  had 
been  alive  when  he  leaped  for  the  crater,  and  there  he  was 
pressed  against  the  soft  earth  of  its  bottom.  He  bur 
rowed  deeper  blissfully.  He  was  the  nearest  to  the  en 
emy  of  any  man  of  the  i28th,  and  he  certainly  had 
passed  through  a  gamut  of  emotions  in  the  half-hour 
since  Eugene  Aronson  had  leaped  over  a  white  post. 


"Confound  it!  If  we'd  kept  on  we'd  have  got  them! 
Now  we  have  to  do  it  all  over  again!"  growled  Fracasse 
distractedly  as  he  looked  around  at  the  faces  hugging 
the  cover  of  the  shoulder — faces  asking,  What  next? 
each  in  its  own  way;  faces  blank  and  white;  faces  with 
lips  working  and  eyes  blinking;  faces  with  the  blood 
rushing  back  to  cheeks  in  baffled  anger.  One,  however, 
was  half  smiling — Hugo  Mallin's. 

"You  did  your  share  of  the  running,  I'll  warrant, 
Mallin!"  said  Fracasse  excitedly,  venting  his  disgust  on 
a  particular  object. 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Hugo.  "It  was  very  hard  to 
maintain  a  semblance  of  dignity.  Yes,  sir,  I  kept  near 
you  all  the  time  so  you  could  watch  me.  Wasn't  that 
what  you  wanted  me  to  do,  sir?" 

"Good  old  Hugo!  The  same  old  Hugo!"  breathed 
the  spirit  of  the  company.  Three  or  four  men  burst 
into  a  hysterical  laugh  as  if  something  had  broken 
in  their  throats.  Everybody  felt  better  for  this  touch 
of  drollery  except  the  captain.  Yet,  possibly,  it  may 


RECEIVING  THE  CHARGE  179 

have  helped  him  in  recovering  his  poise.  Sometimes 
even  a  pin-prick  will  have  this  effect. 

" Silence!"  he  said  in  his  old  manner.  "I  will  give 
you  something  to  joke  about  other  than  a  little  setback 
like  this!  Get  up  there  with  your  rifles!" 

He  formed  the  nucleus  of  a  firing-line  under  cover  of 
the  shoulder,  and  then  set  the  remainder  of  his  company 
to  work  with  their  spades  making  a  trench.  The  second 
battalion  of  the  i28th,  which  faced  the  knoll,  was  also 
digging  at  the  base  of  the  slope,  and  another  regiment 
in  reserve  was  deploying  on  the  plain.  After  the  failure 
to  rush  the  knoll  the  Gray  commander  had  settled  down 
to  the  business  of  a  systematic  approach. 

And  what  of  those  of  Fracasse's  men  who  had  not 
run  but  had  dropped  in  their  tracks  when  the  charge 
halted?  They  were  between  two  lines  of  fire.  There 
was  no  escape.  Some  of  the  wounded  had  a  merci 
fully  quick  end,  others  suffered  the  consciousness  of  be 
ing  hit  again  and  again;  the  dead  were  bored  through 
with  bullet  holes.  In  torture,  the  survivors  prayed  for 
death;  for  all  had  to  die  except  Peterkin,  the  pasty-faced 
little  valet's  son. 

Peterkin  was  quite  safe,  hugging  the  bottom  of  the 
shell  crater  under  a  swarm  of  hornets.  In  a  surprisingly 
short  time  he  became  accustomed  to  the  situation  and 
found  himself  ravenously  hungry,  for  the  strain  of  the 
last  twelve  hours  had  burned  up  tissue.  He  took  a 
biscuit  out  of  his  knapsack  and  began  nibbling  it,  as 
became  a  true  rodent. 


XX 

MARTA'S  FIRST  GLIMPSE  OF  WAR 

As  Marta  and  the  children  came  to  the  door  of  the 
chapel  after  the  recitation  of  the  oath,  she  saw  the 
civil  population  moving  along  the  street  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  range.  Suddenly  they  paused  in  a  common 
impulse  and  their  heads  turned  as  one  head  on  the  ful 
crum  of  their  necks,  and  their  faces  as  one  face  in  a  set 
stare  looked  skyward. 

"Keep  on  moving!  No  danger!"  called  the  major 
of  the  brigade  staff.  "Pass  the  word — no  danger!  It's 
not  going  to  drop  any  bombs;  it's  only  a  scout  plane 
trying  to  locate  the  positions  of  the  defences  we've 
thrown  up  overnight.  No  danger — keep  moving!" 
•  He  might  as  well  have  tried  to  distract  the  attention 
of  the  grand  stand  from  the  finish  of  a  horse-race.  More 
than  the  wizard's  spell,  years  before,  at  the  first  sight 
of  man  in  flight  held  them  in  suspense  as  they  watched 
a  plane  approaching  with  the  speed  of  an  albatross  down 
the  wind  straight  on  a  line  with  the  church  tower  where 
the  sharpshooters  were  posted.  The  spread  of  the  wings 
grew  broader;  the  motor  was  making  a  circle  of  light  as 
large  as  a  man's  hat-box,  and  the  aviator  was  the  size 
of  some  enormous  insect  when  three  or  four  sharp  re 
ports  were  audible  from  the  church  tower. 

Still  the  plane  came  on  intact  over  the  spire.  The 
sharpshooters  had  only  rimmed  the  target,  without 
injury  to  braces  or  engine.  But  they  had  another 
chance  from  the  windows  on  the  nearer  side  of  the 
tower;  and  the  crowd  saw  there  the  glint  of  rifle  barrels. 

180 


MARTA'S  FIRST  GLIMPSE  OF  WAR     181 

This  time  they  got  the  bull's-eye.  The  aviator  reeled 
and  dropped  sidewise,  a  dead  weight  caught  by  the 
braces,  with  his  arm  dangling.  A  teetering  dip  of  the 
plane  and  his  body  was  shaken  free.  His  face,  as  he 
neared  the  earth  in  his  descent,  bore  the  surprised  look 
of  a  man  thumped  on  the  back  unexpectedly. 

Marta  pressed  her  fingers  to  her  ears,  but  not  soon 
enough  to  keep  out  the  sound  of  a  thud  on  the  roof  of 
the  building  across  the  street  from  the  chapel. 

"I  was  a  coward  to  do  that !  I  shall  see  worse  things ! " 
she  thought,  and  went  to  the  major,  who  had  turned  to 
the  affairs  of  the  living  directly  he  saw  that  neither 
the  corpse  of  the  aviator  nor  the  wreck  of  the  plane  was 
to  strike  in  the  street.  "I  will  look  after  these  children," 
she  said,  "and  we  will  care  for  as  many  of  the  old  and 
sick  as  we  can  in  our  house." 

"The  children  will  find  their  relatives  or  guardians  in 
the  procession  there,"  he  answered  methodically.  "If 
they  do  not,  the  government  will  look  after  them.  It 
will  not  do  for  you  to  take  them  to  your  house.  That 
would  only  complicate  the  matter  of  their  safety." 
Here  he  was  interrupted  by  a  precipitate  question  from 
one  of  his  lieutenants,  who  had  come  running  up.  "No! 
No  matter  what  the  excuse,  no  one  can  remain!"  he 
answered.  "The  nation  is  not  going  to  take  the  risk 
of  Jetting  spies  get  information  to  the  enemy  for  the 
sake  of  gratifying  individual  interests.  Every  one  must 
go!"  Then  he  called  to  an  able-bodied  citizen  of  thirty 
years  or  so  in  the  procession:  "Here,  you,  if  you're  not 
in  the  reserve  I  have  work  for  you!" 

"But  I  was  excused  from  army  service  on  account  of 
heart  trouble!"  explained  the  able-bodied  citizen. 

"We  all  have  heart  trouble  to-day,"  remarked  the 
major  pithily.  "  Men  are  giving  up  their  lives  in  defence 
of  you  and  your  property.  Every  man  of  your  age  must 
do  his  share  when  required.  Go  with  this  orderly!" 
was  the  final  and  tart  conclusion  of  the  argument.  "And 
see  that  he  is  made  useful,"  he  added  to  the  orderly. 


i82  THE  LAST  SHOT 

An  explosion  in  the  factory  district  made  windows 
rattle  and  brought  an  hysterical  outcry  from  some  of  the 
women. 

"It's  nothing!"  the  major  called,  in  the  assurance  of  a 
shepherd  to  his  sheep.  "Blowing  up  some  buildings 
that  furnish  cover  for  the  enemy's  approach  in  front  of 
our  infantry  positions!  You  will  hear  more  of  it. 
Don't  worry!  Do  as  you're  told!  Keep  moving! 
Keep  moving!" 

Now  he  had  time  to  conclude  what  he  had  to  say  to 
Marta. 

"As  your  house  will  soon  be  under  fire,  it  will  be  no 
refuge  for  the  children;  and,  in  any  event,  we  should  not 
want  to  leave  them  to  the  care  of  the  Grays  with  the 
parents  on  our  side,"  he  explained  in  a  manner  none 
the  less  final  because  of  its  politeness.  "Every  detail 
has  been  systematically  arranged  under  government 
supervision.  Private  efforts  will  only  bring  confusion 
and  hardship  where  we  would  have  order  and  all  pos 
sible  mercy.  As  for  the  old,  the  sick,  and  the  infirm — 
those  who  cannot  bear  being  carried  far  are  being  moved 
to  the  hospital  and  barracks  outside  the  town." 

In  proof  of  his  words,  ambulances  and  requisitioned 
carriages  filled  with  the  sick  and  infirm  were  already 
proceeding  up  one  of  the  side  streets. 

"It's  not  human,  though!"  Marta  exclaimed  in  the 
desperation  of  helplessness. 

"No,  it  is  war,  which  has  a  habit  of  being  inhuman," 
replied  the  major,  turning  to  call  to  a  woman:  "Now, 
madame,  if  you  leave  that  pillow  behind  you  will  not 
be  dropping  your  other  things  and  having  to  stop  all 
the  time  to  pick  them  up!" 

"But  it's  the  finest  goose  feathers  and  last  year's 
crop!"  said  the  woman;  and  then  gasped:  "Oh,  Lord!  I 
left  my  silver  jug  on  the  mantel!" 

"As  I've  told  you  before — as  the  printed  slips  we  dis 
tributed  when  we  woke  you  at  dawn  told  you,"  said 
the  major  with  some  asperity,  "you  were  to  take  only 


MARTA'S  FIRST  GLIMPSE  OF  WAR     183 

light  things  easily  portable,  and  after  you  had  gone 
wagons  would  get  what  you  had  packed  and  left  ready 
at  the  door  of  your  houses,  with  your  names  clearly 
marked,  up  to  two  hundred  pounds.  The  rest  we  trust 
to  the  mercy  of  the  Grays." 

There  was  nothing  for  Marta  to  do  but  start  home 
ward.  The  thought  that  her  mother  was  alone  made  her 
hasten  at  a  pace  much  more  rapid  than  the  procession 
of  people,  whose  talk  and  exclamations  formed  a  mono 
tone  audible  in  its  nearness,  despite  the  continuous  rifle- 
fire,  now  broken  by  the  pounding  of  the  guns. 

"I  wish  I  had  brought  the  clock — it  was  my  great 
grandfather's." 

" Johnny,  you  keep  close  to  me!" 

"And  they've  taken  my  wife  off  to  the  hospital- 
separated  us!" 

Some  were  excruciatingly  alive  to  the  situation; 
others  were  in  a  daze.  But  one  cry  always  roused  them 
from  their  complaints;  always  brought  a  flash  to  the 
dullest  eye:  Retribution!  retribution!  Taken  from 
their  peaceful  pursuits  arbitrarily  by  the  final  authority 
of  physical  force,  which  they  could  not  dispute,  their 
minds  turned  in  primitive  passion  to  revenge  through 
physical  force. 

"I  hope  our  army  makes  them  pay!" 

"Yes,  make  them  pay!    Make  them  pay!" 

"It's  all  done  to  beat  the  Grays,  isn't  it,  Miss  Galland? 
They  are  trying  to  take  our  land,"  said  Jacky  Werther 
as  Marta  parted  from  him. 

"Yes,  it  is  done  to  beat  the  Grays/'  she  answered. 
"Good  luck,  Jacky!" 

Yes,  yes,  to  beat  the  Grays!  The  same  idea — the 
fighting  nature,  the  brute  nature  of  man — animated 
both  sides.  Had  the  Browns  really  tried  for  peace? 
Had  they,  in  the  spirit  of  her  oath,  appealed  to  justice 
and  reason?  Why  hadn't  their  premier  before  all  the 
world  said  to  the  premier  of  the  Grays,  as  one  honest, 
friendly  neighbor  to  another  over  a  matter  of  dispute: 


i84  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"We  do  not  want  war.  We  know  you  outnumber  us, 
but  we  know  you  would  not  take  advantage  of  that. 
If  we  are  wrong  we  will  make  amends;  if  you  are  wrong 
we  know  that  you  will.  Let  us  not  play  tricks  in  secret 
to  gain  points,  we  civilized  nations,  but  be  frank  with 
each  other.  Let  us  not  try  to  irritate  each  other  or  to 
influence  our  people,  but  to  realize  how  much  we  have 
in  common  and  that  our  only  purpose  is  common  prog 
ress  and  happiness." 

But  no.  This  was  against  the  precedent  of  Cain,  who 
probably  got  Abel  into  a  cul-de-sac,  handed  down  to 
the  keeping  of  the  Roman  aristocrat,  the  baron,  the  first 
Galland,  and  the  fat,  pompous  little  man.  It  would 
deprive  armies  of  an  occupation.  It  would  make  states 
manship  too  simple  and  naive  to  have  the  distinction  of 
craft,  which  gave  one  man  the  right  to  lead  another. 
Both  sides  had  to  act  in  the  old  fashion  of  mutual  sus 
picion  and  chicanery. 

She  was  overwrought  in  the  fervor  of  her  principles; 
she  was  in  an  anguish  of  protest.  Her  spirit,  in  arms 
against  an  overwhelming  fact  that  was  wrong,  sinful, 
ridiculous,  demanded  some  expression  in  action.  Now 
she  was  half  running,  both  running  away  from  horror 
and  toward  horror;  in  a  shuttle  of  resolutions  and 
emotions:  a  being  at  war  with  war.  Passing  the  head 
of  the  procession,  she  soon  had  the  castle  road  to 
herself,  except  for  orderlies  on  motor-cycles  and  horse 
back,  until  a  train  of  automobile  wagons  loaded  with 
household  goods  roared  by.  The  full  orchestra  of  war 
was  playing  right  and  left:  crashing,  high-pitched  gun- 
booms  near  at  hand;  low-pitched,  reverberating  gun- 
booms  in  the  distance.  At  the  turn  of  the  road  in  front 
of  the  castle  she  saw  the  gunners  of  the  batteries  that 
Feller  had  watched  approaching  making  an  emplace 
ment  for  their  guns  in  a  field  of  carrots  that  had  not  yet 
been  harvested.  The  roots  of  golden  yellow  were 
mixed  with  the  tossing  spadefuls  of  earth. 

A  shadow  like  a  great  cloud  in  mad  flight  shot  over 


MARTA'S  FIRST  GLIMPSE  OF  WAR     185 

the  earth,  and  with  the  gunners  she  looked  up  to  see  a 
Gray  dirigible.  Already  it  was  turning  homeward;  al 
ready  it  had  gained  its  object  as  a  scout.  On  the  fragile 
platform  of  the  gondola  was  a  man,  seemingly  a  human 
mite  aiming  a  tiny  toy  gun.  His  target  was  one  of  the 
Brown  aeroplanes. 

" They're  in  danger  of  cutting  their  own  envelope! 
They  can't  get  the  angle!  The  plane  is  too  high!" 
exclaimed  the  artillery  commander.  Both  he  and  his 
men  forgot  their  work  in  watching  the  spectacle  of  aerial 
David  against  aerial  Goliath.  "If  our  man  lands  with 
his  little  bomb,  oh,  my!"  he  grinned.  " That's  why  he 
is  so  high.  He's  been  waiting  up  there." 

"Pray  God  he  will!"  exclaimed  one  of  the  gunners. 

"Look  at  him  volplane — motor  at  full  speed,  too!" 

The  pilot  was  young  Etzel,  who,  as  Lanstron  had  ob 
served,  would  charge  a  church  tower  if  he  were  bidden. 
He  was  taking  no  risks  in  missing.  His  ego  had  no 
cosmos  except  that  huge,  oblong  gas-bag.  He  drove  for 
it  as  a  hawk  goes  for  its  prey.  One  life  for  a  number  of 
lives — the  sacrifice  of  a  single  aeroplane  for  a  costly 
dirigible — that  was  an  exchange  in  favor  of  the  Browns. 
And  Etzel  had  taken  an  oath  in  his  heart — not  standing 
on  a  cafe  table — that  he  would  never  let  any  dirigible 
that  he  attacked  escape. 

"Into  it!  Making  sure!  Oh,  splen — O!'*  cried  the 
artillery  commander. 

A  ball  of  lightning  shot  forth  sheets  of  flame.  Diri 
gible  and  plane  were  hidden  in  an  ugly  swirl  of  yellowish 
smoke,  rolling  out  into  a  purple  cloud  that  spread  into 
prismatic  mist  over  the  descent  of  cavorting  human 
bodies  and  broken  machinery  and  twisted  braces,  flying 
pieces  of  tattered  or  burning  cloth.  David  has  taken 
Goliath  down  with  him  in  a  death  grip. 

An  aeroplane  following  the  dirigible  as  a  screen, 
hoping  to  get  home  with  information  if  the  dirigible  were 
lost,  had  escaped  the  sharpshooters  in  the  church  tower 
by  flying  around  the  town.  However,  it  ran  within 


i86  THE  LAST  SHOT 

range  of  the  automatic  and  the  sharpshooters  on  top  of 
the  castle  tower.  They  failed  of  the  bull's-eye,  but  their 
bullets,  rimming  the  target,  crippling  the  motor,  and 
cutting  braces,  brought  the  crumpling  wings  about  the 
helpless  pilot.  The  watching  gunners  uttered  "Ahs!" 
of  horror  and  triumph  as  they  saw  him  fall,  gliding  this 
way  and  that,  in  the  agony  of  slow  descent. 

"Come,  now!"  called  the  artillery  commander.  "We 
are  wasting  precious  time." 

Entering  the  grounds  of  the  Galland  house,  Marta 
had  to  pass  to  one  side  of  the  path,  now  blocked  by  army 
wagons  and  engineers'  materials  and  tools.  Soldiers 
carrying  sand-bags  were  taking  the  shortest  cut,  tram 
pling  the  flowers  on  their  way. 

"Do  you  know  whose  property  this  is?"  she  demanded 
in  a  burst  of  anger. 

"Ours — the  nation's!"  answered  one,  perspiring  freely 
at  his  work.  "Sorry!"  he  added  on  second  thought. 

Already  parts  of  the  first  terrace  were  shoulder-high 
with  sand-bags  and  one  automatic  had  been  set  in 
place,  Marta  observed  as  she  turned  to  the  veranda. 
There  her  mother  sat  in  her  favorite  chair,  hands  relaxed 
as  they  rested  on  its  arms,  while  she  looked  out  over  the 
valley  in  the  supertranquillity  that  comes  to  some  women 
under  a  strain — as  soldiers  who  have  been  on  sieges  can 
tell  you — that  some  psychologists  interpret  one  way  and 
some  another,  none  knowing  even  their  own  wives. 

"Marta,  did  any  of  the  children  come?"  Mrs.  Galland 
asked  in  her  usual  pleasant  tone.  So  far  as  she  was  con 
cerned,  the  activity  on  the  terrace  did  not  exist.  She 
seemed  oblivious  of  the  fact  of  war. 

"Yes,  seven." 

"And  did  you  hold  your  session?" 

"Yes." 

Marta's  monosyllables  absently  answering  the  ques 
tions  were  expressive  of  her  wonder  at  her  mother. 
Most  girls  do  not  know  their  mothers  much  better  than 
psychologists  know  their  wives. 


MARTA'S  FIRST  GLIMPSE  OF  WAR     187 

"I  am  glad  of  that,  Marta.  I  am  glad  you  went  and 
sorry  that  I  opposed  your  going,  because,  Marta,  what 
ever  happens  one  should  go  regularly  about  what  he 
considers  his  duty,"  said  Mrs.  Galland.  "They  have 
been  as  considerate  as  they  could,  evidently  by  Colonel 
Lanstron's  orders,"  she  proceeded,  nodding  toward  the 
industrious  engineers.  "And  they've  packed  all  the 
paintings  and  works  of  art  and  put  them  in  the  cellar, 
where  they  will  be  safe." 

The  captain  of  engineers  in  command,  seeing  Marta, 
hurried  toward  her. 

"Miss  Galland,  isn't  it?"  he  asked.  "I  have  been 
waiting  for  you.  I — I — well,  I  found  that  I  could  not 
make  the  situation  clear  to  your  mother." 

"He  thinks  me  in  my  second  childhood  or  out  of  my 
head,"  Mrs.  Galland  explained  with  a  shade  of  tartness. 
"And  he  has  been  so  polite  in  trying  to  conceal  his 
opinion,  too,"  she  added  with  a  comprehending  smile. 

The  captain  flushed  in  embarrassment. 

"I — I  can't  speak  too  strongly,"  he  declared  when 
he  had  regained  his  composure.  "Though  everything 
seems  safe  here  now,  it  may  not  be  in  an  hour.  You 
must  go,  all  of  you.  This  house  will  be  in  an  inferno 
as  soon  as  the  53d  falls  back,  and  I  can't  possibly  get 
your  mother  to  appreciate  the  fact,  Miss  Galland." 

"But  I  said  that  I  did  appreciate  it  and  that  the  Gal- 
lands  have  been  in  infernos  before — perhaps  not  as  bad 
as  the  one  that  is  coming — but,  then,  the  Gallands  must 
keep  abreast  of  the  times,"  replied  Mrs.  Galland.  "I 
have  asked  Minna  and  she  prefers  to  remain.  I  am 
glad  of  that.  I  am  glad  now  that  we  kept  her,  Marta. 
She  is  as  loyal  as  my  old  maid  and  the  butler  and  the 
cook  were  to  your  grandmother  in  the  last  war.  Ah,  the 
Gallands  had  many  servants  then!" 

"This  isn't  like  the  old  war.  This  place  will  be 
shelled,  enfiladed!  And  you  two — "  the  captain  pro 
tested  desperately. 

"I  became  a  Galland  when  I  married,"  said  Mrs. 


i88  THE  LAST  SHOT 

Galland,  "and  the  Galland  women  have  always  remained 
with  their  property  in  time  of  war.  Naturally,  I  shall 
remain!" 

"Miss  Galland,  it  was  you — your  influence  I  was 
counting  on  to—  The  captain  turned  to  Marta  in  a 
final  appeal. 

Mrs.  Galland  was  watching  her  daughter's  face  in 
tently. 

"We  stay!"  replied  Marta,  and  the  captain  saw  in  the 
depths  of  her  eyes,  a  cold  blue-black,  that  further  argu 
ment  was  useless. 

With  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  he  was  turning  to  go 
when  his  lieutenant,  hurrying  up  and  pointing  to  the 
row  of  lindens  at  the  edge  of  the  estate,  exclaimed: 

"If  we  only  had  those  trees  out  of  the  way!  They 
cut  the  line  of  our  fire!  They  form  cover  and  protection 
for  the  enemy." 

"The  orders  are  against  it,"  replied  the  captain. 

"Lanstron  may  be  a  great  soldier,  but —  ''  declared 
the  lieutenant  petulantly. 

"Cut  the  lindens  if  it  will  help  the  Browns!"  called 
Mrs.  Galland. 

"Cut  the  lindens,  mother!  Is  everything  to  be  de 
stroyed — everything  to  satisfy  the  appetite  of  sav 
agery?"  exclaimed  Marta.  Then,  in  an  abrupt  change 
of  mood,  inexplicable  to  the  captain  and  even  to  her 
self,  she  added:  "My  mother  says  to  cut  the  lindens. 
And  you  will  tell  us  when  to  go  into  the  house?"  Marta 
asked  the  captain. 

"Yes.  There  is  no  danger  yet — none  until  we  see 
the  53d  falling  back." 

What  mockery,  what  uncanny  staginess  for  either  her 
mother  or  herself  to  be  so  calm!  Yet,  what  else  were 
they  to  do?  Were  they  to  scream?  Or  fall  into  each 
other's  arms  and  sob?  Marta  found  a  strange  pleasure 
in  looking  at  her  garden  before  it  was  spattered  with 
blood,  as  it  had  been  in  the  last  war.  It  had  never 
seemed  more  beautiful.  There  was  a  sublimity  in  na- 


MARTA'S  FIRST  GLIMPSE  OF  WAR     189 

ture's  obliviousness  to  the  thrashing  of  the  air  with 
shells  in  a  gentle  breeze  that  fluttered  the  petals  of  the 
hydrangeas. 

The  sight  of  Feller  coming  along  the  path  of  the  second 
terrace  brought  in  sudden  vividness  to  her  mind  that 
question  which  must  soon  be  decided:  whether  or  not 
she  would  allow  him  to  remain  to  carry  out  his  plan. 
He  still  had  the  garden-shears  in  hand.  He  was  walk 
ing  with  the  slow  and  soft  step  which  was  in  keeping 
with  the  serenity  of  his  occupation.  Pausing  before 
the  chrysanthemum  bed,  he  touched  his  hat,  and  as  he 
awaited  her  approach  he  lifted  one  of  the  largest  blooms 
that  was  drooping  from  its  weight  on  the  slender  stem. 

"They  look  well,  don't  you  think?"  he  asked  cau 
tiously;  and  he  was  very  cool,  while  his  eyes  had  a 
singular  limpidity,  speaking  better  than  any  words  the 
sadness  of  his  story  and  the  dependence  of  his  hope  of 
regeneration  upon  her. 

"Yes,  quite  the  best  they  ever  have,"  she  replied,  in 
clined  to  look  away  from  him,  conscious  of  her  sensitive 
ness  to  his  appeal,  and  yet  still  looking  at  him,  while 
she  marvelled  at  him,  at  herself,  at  everything. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "You  don't  know  how  much 
that  means,  how  pleased  I  am." 

Now  came  the  sweep  of  a  rising  roar  from  the  sky 
with  the  command  to  attention  of  the  rush  of  a  fast 
express-train  past  a  country  railway  station.  Two  Gray 
dirigibles  with  their  escort  of  aeroplanes — in  formation 
like  that  which  Mrs.  Galland  and  Feller  had  seen  race 
along  the  frontier — were  bearing  toward  the  pass  over 
the  pass  road.  One  glimpse  of  the  squadron  was  as  a 
match  to  Feller's  military  passion.  He  swept  off  his 
old  straw  hat  and  with  it  all  of  the  gardener's  chrysalis. 
Feller  the  artillerist  gazed  aloft  in  feverish  excitement. 

"Lanny  has  them  guessing!  They're  bound  to  know 
his  plans  if  it  takes  all  the  air  craft  in  the  shop!''  he 
exclaimed.  "And  what  are  we  doing?  Yes,  what  are 
we  doing?"  he  cried  in  alarm  as  his  glance  swept  the 


igo  THE  LAST  SHOT 

sky  in  front  of  the  squadron,  already  even  with  the  ter 
race  in  its  terrific  speed. 

The  automatic  and  the  riflemen  in  the  tower  banged 
away  to  no  purpose,  for  the  aerostatic  officers  of  the 
Grays  had  been  apprised  of  the  danger  in  that  direction. 

" Minutes,  seconds  count!  Where  are  our  high-angle 
guns?"  Feller  went  on.  He  was  unconsciously  gesticu 
lating  with  all  the  fervor  of  hurrying  a  battery  into  place 
to  cover  an  infantry  retreat  in  a  crisis.  "And  they're 
turning!  What's  the  matter?  What  are  high-angle 
guns  for,  anyway,  with  such  targets  naked  over  our 
lines?  Ah-h!  Beautiful!" 

The  central  sections  of  the  envelope  of  the  rear  diri 
gible  had  been  torn  in  shreds;  it  was  buckling.  Clouds 
of  blue  shrapnel  smoke  broke  around  its  gondola.  A 
number  of  field-guns  joined  forces  with  a  battery  of  high- 
angle  guns  in  a  havoc  that  left  a  drifting  derelict  that  had 
ceased  to  exist  to  Feller's  mind  immediately  it  was  out 
of  action;  for  he  saw  that  the  remainder  of  the  squadron 
had  completed  its  loop  and  was  pointing  toward  the 
plain. 

"And  they  were  low  enough  to  see  all  they  want  to 
know  and  rising  now — evidently  already  out  of  reach  of 
our  guns — and  nothing  against  them!"  he  groaned  as 
he  saw  a  clear  sky  ahead  of  the  big  disk  and  its  attend 
ing  wings,  while  clenched  fists  pumping  up  and  down 
with  the  movement  of  his  forearms  shook  his  whole 
body  in  a  palpitation  of  angry  disgust.  "Lanny,  what's 
the  matter!  Lanny,  they've  beaten  you!  Eh?  What? 
What—  A  long  whistle  broke  from  his  lips.  His 
body  still,  transfixed,  he  cupped  his  hands  over  his  eyes. 
"So,  that  is  it!  That  is  your  plan,  Lanny,  old  boy!" 
he  shouted.  "But  if  one  of  their  confounded  little 
aviators  gets  back,  he  has  the  story!" 

From  a  great  altitude,  literally  out  of  the  blue  of 
heaven,  high  over  the  Gray  lines,  Marta  made  out  a 
Brown  squadron  of  dirigibles  and  planes  descending 
across  the  track  of  the  Grays. 


MARTA'S  FIRST  GLIMPSE  OF  WAR     191 

"Catch  them  as  they  come  back!  Between  them  and 
home — between  the  badger  and  his  hole!"  Feller  went 
on  explosively;  and  then,  while  the  two  squadrons  were 
approaching  at  countering  angles,  he  breathed  the 
thoughts  that  the  spectacle  aroused  in  his  quick  brain: 
"This  is  war — war!  Talk  about  your  old-fashioned, 
take-snuff-my-card-sir  courage,  pray-and-swear  courage 
— what  about  this?  What  about  old  Lanny's  chosen 
men  of  the  air,  without  boasts  or  oaths,  offering  their 
lives  in  no  wild  charge,  but  coolly,  hand  on  lever,  con- 
centratedly,  scientifically,  in  sane,  twentieth-century 
fashion,  just  to  keep  our  positions  secret!  Now — now 
for  it!" 

The  Gray  dirigibles,  stern  on,  were  little  larger  than 
umbrellas  and  the  planes  than  swallows;  the  Brown 
dirigibles,  side  on,  were  big  sausages  and  their  planes 
specks.  To  the  eye,  this  meeting  was  like  that  of  two 
small  flocks  of  soaring  birds  apparently  unable  to  change 
their  course.  But  imagination  could  picture  the  fear 
ful  crash  of  forces,  whose  wounded  would  find  the  suc 
cor  of  no  hospital  except  impact  on  the  earth  below. 

Marta  put  her  hands  over  her  eyes  for  only  a  second, 
she  thought,  before  she  withdrew  them  in  vexation — 
hadn't  she  promised  herself  not  to  be  cowardly? — to 
see  one  Brown  dirigible  and  two  Brown  aeroplanes 
ascending  at  a  sharp  angle  above  a  cloud  of  smoke  to 
escape  the  high-angle  guns  of  the  Grays. 

"We've  got  them  all!  No  lips  survive  to  tell  what 
the  eye  saw!"  exclaimed  Feller,  his  words  bubbling  with 
the  joy  of  water  in  the  sunlight.  "As  I  thought,"  he 
continued  in  professional  enthusiasm  and  discrimination. 
"We  are  getting  the  theory  of  one  feature  of  the  new 
warfare  in  practice.  It  isn't  like  the  popular  dream  of 
wiping  out  armies  by  dropping  bombs  as  you  sail  over 
head.  The  force  of  gravity  is  against  the  fliers.  You 
have  only  to  bring  them  to  earth  to  put  them  out  of 
action.  Plane  driven  into  plane,  dirigible  into  dirigible, 
and  an  end  of  bomb-dropping  and  scouting!  War  will 


I92  THE  LAST  SHOT 

still  be  won  by  the  infantry  and  the  guns.  Yes,  the 
guns — the  new  guns!  They— 

Feller  recalled  with  a  nervous  shock  flashing  through 
his  system  that  he  was  a  gardener,  a  gentle  old  gardener. 
He  put  his  hat  back  on  a  head  already  bent,  while  the 
shoulders,  after  a  pathetic  shrug,  drew  together  in  the  ac 
customed  stoop.  His  slim  fingers  slipped  under  the 
largest  chrysanthemum  blossom,  his  attitude  the  same 
as  when  he  had  held  it  up  for  Marta's  inspection  before 
they  heard  the  roar  of  the  Gray  squadron's  motors. 

"I  think  that  we  might  cut  them  all  now  and  fill  the 
vases,"  he  suggested,  a  musical,  ingratiating  note  in 
his  voice.  "  To-morrow  we  may  not  have  a  chance." 

"Yes,"  she  agreed  mechanically,  her  thoughts  still 
dwelling  on  the  collision  of  the  squadrons. 

"And  some  of  the  finest  ones  for  you  to  take  now,"  he 
added,  plying  the  shears  as  he  made  his  selections.  "I'll 
bring  the  rest,"  he  concluded  when  he  had  gathered  a 
dozen  choice  blossoms. 

His  fingers  touched  hers  as  the  stems  changed  hands. 
In  his  eyes,  showing  just  below  the  rim  of  his  hat,  was 
the  light  which  she  had  seen  first  during  the  dramatic 
scene  in  his  sitting-room  and  the  appeal  of  deference,  of 
suffering,  and  of  the  boyish  hope  of  a  cadet. 


XXI 

SHE  CHANGES  HER  MIND 

THE  indefatigable  captain  of  engineers  had  turned 
spectator.  With  high-power  binoculars  glued  to  his 
eyes,  he  was  watching  to  see  if  the  faint  brown  line  of 
Dellarme's  men  were  going  to  hold  or  break.  If  it 
held,  he  might  have  hours  in  which  to  complete  his 
task;  if  it  broke,  he  had  only  minutes. 

Marta  came  up  the  terrace  path  from  the  chrysan 
themum  bed  in  time  to  watch  the  shroud  of  shrapnel 
smoke  billowing  over  the  knoll,  to  visualize  another 
scene  in  place  of  the  collision  of  the  squadrons,  and  to 
note  the  captain's  exultation  over  Fracasse's  repulse. 

"How  we  must  have  punished  them!"  he  exclaimed  to 
his  lieutenant.  ' '  How  we  must  have  mowed  them  down ! 
Lanstron  certainly  knew  what  he  was  doing." 

"You  mean  that  he  knew  how  we  should  mow  them 
down?"  asked  Marta. 

Not  until  she  spoke  did  he  realize  that  she  was  stand 
ing  near  him. 

"Why,  naturally!  If  we  hadn't  mowed  them  down 
his  plan  would  have  failed.  Mowing  them  down  was 
the  only  way  to  hold  them  back,"  he  said;  and  seeing 
her  horror  made  haste  to  add:  "Miss  Galland,  now  you 
know  what  a  ghastly  business  war  is.  It  will  be  worse 
here  than  there." 

"Yes,"  she  said  blankly.  Her  colorless  cheeks,  her 
drooping  underlip  convinced  him  that  now,  with  a  little 
show  of  masculine  authority,  he  would  gain  his  point. 

"You  and  your  mother  must  go!"  he  said  firmly. 

This  was  the  very  thing  to  whip  her  thoughts  back 

193 


i94  THE  LAST  SHOT 

from  the  knoll.  He  was  thunderstruck  at  the  trans 
formation:  hot  color  in  her  cheeks,  eyes  aflame,  lips 
curving  around  a  whirlwind  of  words. 

"You  name  the  very  reason  why  I  wish  to  stay.  Why 
do  you  want  to  save  the  women?  Why  shouldn't  they 
bear  their  share?  Why  don't  you  want  them  to  see 
men  mowed  down?  Is  it  because  you  are  ashamed  of 
your  profession?  Why,  I  ask?" 

The  problem  of  dealing  with  an  angry  woman  breaking 
a  shell  fire  of  questions  over  his  head  had  not  been 
ready  solved  in  the  captain's  curriculum  like  other  pro 
fessional  problems,  nor  was  it  mentioned  in  the  official 
instructions  about  the  defences  of  the  Galland  house. 
He  aimed  to  smile  soothingly  in  the  helplessness  of  man 
in  presence  of  feminine  fury. 

"It  is  an  old  custom,"  he  was  saying,  but  she  had 
turned  away. 

" Picking  flowers!  What  mockery!  Lanny's  plan- 
mow  them  down!  mow  them  down!  mow  them  down!" 
she  went  on,  more  to  herself  than  to  him,  as  she  dropped 
the  chrysanthemums  on  the  veranda  table. 

In  a  fire  of  resolution  she  hastened  back  down  the 
terrace  steps.  The  Grays  and  the  Browns  were  fighting 
in  their  way  for  their  causes;  she  must  fight  in  her  way 
for  hers.  Stopping  before  Feller,  she  seemed  taller  than 
her  usual  self  and  quivering  with  impatience. 

"Have  you  connected  the  wire  to  the  telephone  yet?" 
she  asked  abruptly. 

"No,  not  yet,"  he  answered. 

"Then  please  come  with  me  to  the  tower!" 

Whatever  his  fears,  he  held  them  within  the  serene 
bounds  of  the  gardener's  personality,  while  his  covert 
glimpse  of  her  warned  him  against  the  mistake  of  trying 
to  dam  the  current  of  a  passion  running  so  strong. 

"Certainly,  Miss  Galland,"  he  said  agreeably,  quite 
as  if  there  were  nothing  unusual  in  her  attitude.  No 
word  passed  between  them  as  he  kept  pace  with  her 
rapid  gait  along  the  path,  but  out  of  the  corner  of  his 


SHE  CHANGES  HER  MIND  195 

eye  he  surveyed  in  measuring  admiration  and  curiosity 
the  straight  line  of  nose  and  forehead  under  its  heavy 
crown  of  hair,  with  a  few  detached  and  riotous  tendrils. 

"Bring  a  lantern!"  she  said,  as  they  entered  his  sitting- 
room,  in  a  way  that  left  no  excuse  for  refusal. 

When  he  had  brought  the  lantern  she  took  it  from  his 
hand  and  led  the  way  into  the  tunnel. 

"  Please  make  the  connection  so  that  I  can  speak  to 
Lanny!"  she  instructed  him  after  she  had  pressed  the 
button  and  the  panel  door  of  the  telephone  recess  flew 
open. 

For  an  instant  he  hesitated;  then  curiosity  and  the 
unremitting  authority  of  her  tone  had  their  way.  He 
dropped  to  his  knees,  ran  his  fingers  into  an  aperture 
between  two  stones  and  made  a  jointure  of  two  wire 
ends. 

"All  ready!"  he  said,  and  eagerly.  What  a  delight 
fully  spirited  rage  she  was  in!  And  what  the  devil  was 
she  going  to  do,  anyway? 

As  she  took  the  receiver  from  the  hook  she  heard  an 
electric  bell  at  the  other  end  of  the  line,  but  no  "Hello!" 

"The  bell  means  that  Lanny  will  be  called  if  he  is 
there.  No  one  except  him  is  to  talk  over  this  tele 
phone,"  Feller  explained  softly. 

Marta  waited  for  some  time  before  she  heard  a  familiar, 
calm  voice,  with  a  faint  echo  of  irritation  over  being 
interrupted  in  the  midst  of  pressing  duties. 

"Weil,  Gustave,  old  boy,  it  can't  be  that  you  are  in 
touch  with  Westerling  yet?  " 

"It  is  I — Marta!"  and  she  came  abruptly  to  the  flam 
ing  interrogation  that  had  brought  her  there.  "I  want 
to  ask  a  question.  I  want  a  clear  answer — I  want  every 
thing  clear !  If  Feller's  plan  succeeds  it  means  that  you 
will  know  where  the  Grays  are  going  to  attack?" 

"Yes;  why,  yes,  Marta!" 

"So  that  you  can  mow  them  down?" 

"That  is  one  way  of  putting  it — yes." 

"If  I  keep  your  secret — if  I  let  the  telephone  remain, 


196  THE  LAST  SHOT 

I  am  an  accomplice!  I  shall  not  be  that — not  to  any 
kind  of  murder!  I  shall  not  let  the  telephone  remain!" 

"As  you  will,  Marta,"  he  replied.  "But  anything 
that  leads  to  victory  means  less  slaughter  in  the  end. 
For  we  have  tested  our  army  well  enough  to  know  that 
only  when  it  is  decimated  will  it  ever  retreat  from  its 
main  line  of  defence." 

"The  old  argument!"  she  answered  bitterly. 

"As  you  will,  Marta!  Only,  Marta — I  plead  with 
you — please,  please  leave  the  house!"  he  begged  pas* 
sionately. 

Again  that  request,  which  was  acid  to  the  raw  spot 
of  her  anger!  Again  that  assumption  that  she  must 
desert  her  own  home  because  uninvited  guests  would 
make  it  the  theatre  of  their  quarrel!  How  clear  and 
unassailable  her  reply  in  the  purview  of  her  distraught 
logic ! 

"Why  particularly  care  for  one  life  when  you  deal  in 
lives  by  the  wholesale? "  she  demanded.  "'Why  think  of 
my  life  when  you  are  taking  other  lives  every  minute?" 

"Because  I  am  human,  not  just  a  machine!  Because 
yours  is  the  one  life  of  all  to  me — because  I  love  you!" 

Feller,  getting  only  one  side  of  the  talk,  cautiously 
watching  her  as  he  held  up  the  lantern  to  throw  her  face 
more  clearly  in  relief,  saw  her  start  and  caught  the  sound 
of  a  quick  indrawing  of  breath  between  her  lips,  while 
something  electric  quivered  through  her  frame.  Then, 
as  one  who  has  twinged  from  a  pin-prick  of  distraction 
which  she  will  not  permit  to  waive  her  from  a  white- 
heat  purpose,  she  exclaimed,  in  rapid,  stabbing,  desper 
ate  sentences: 

"That!  That  now!  After  what  I  said  to  you  a  week 
ago!  That  in  the  midst  of  your  mowing!  No,  no,  no!" 
She  drove  the  receiver  down  on  the  hook  and  blazed 
out  to  Feller:  "Now  you  will  tear  out  the  'phone!" 

He  steadied  himself  against  the  wall,  covering  his 
face  with  his  hands,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she 
heard  a  man  sob. 


SHE  CHANGES  HER  MIND  197 

"My  one  chance — my  last  chance — gone!"  he  said 
brokenly.  "The  chance  for  me  to  redeem  myself,  so 
that  I  might  again  look  at  the  flag  without  shame,  taken 
from  me  in  the  name  of  mercy,  when,  by  helping  to 
bring  victory  and  shorten  the  war,  I  might  have  saved 
thousands  of  lives!"  he  proceeded  dismally. 

"The  old  argument!  Lanny  has  just  used  it!"  said 
Marta.  But  coming  from  a  man  sobbing  it  sounded 
differently.  His  hands  fell  away  from  his  face  as  if 
they  were  a  dead  weight.  She  saw  him  a  wreck  of  a 
human  being  with  only  his  eyes  alive,  regarding  her  in 
harrowing  wonder  and  reproach. 

"When  I  was  a  gardener  eating  at  the  kitchen  table, 
playing  the  part  of  a  spy — I  who  was  honor  man  at  the 
military  school — I  who  had  a  conscience  that  sent  me 
back  from  the  free  life  on  the  plains  to  try  to  atone — 
when  I  hoped  to  do  this  thing  in  order  to  prove  that  I 
was  fit  to  die  if  not  to  live- 
He  was  as  a  man  pitting  his  last  grain  of  strength 
against  overwhelming  odds.  There  were  long,  poignant 
pauses  between  his  sentences  as  he  seemed  to  strive  for 
coherence. 

" — in  order  to  prove  it  for  my  country,  for  Lanny, 
and  for  you  who  have  been  so  kind  to  me!"  he  concluded, 
another  dry  sob  shaking  him. 

His  chin  dropped  to  his  breast.  Even  the  spark  in 
his  eyes  flickered  out.  In  the  feeble  lantern  light  that 
deepened  the  shadows  of  his  face  he  was  indescribably 
pitiful.  She  could  not  look  away  from  him.  There 
was  something  infectious  about  his  misery  that  com 
pelled  her  to  feel  with  his  nerves. 

"Please,"  he  pleaded  faintly — "please  leave  me  to 
myself.  I  will  tear  out  the  telephone — trust  me — only 
I  wish  to  be  alone.  I  am  uncertain — I  see  only  dark!" 

He  sank  lower  against  the  wall,  his  head  fell  forward, 
though  not  so  far  but  he  could  see  her  from  under  his 
eyebrows.  She  started  as  she  had  at  the  telephone, 
her  breath  came  in  the  same  sweep  between  her  lips, 


198  THE  LAST  SHOT 

and  he  looked  for  a  passionate  refusal;  but  it  did  not 
come.  She  seemed  in  some  spell  of  recollection  or  pro 
jection  of  thought.  A  lustrous  veil  was  over  her  eyes. 
She  was  not  looking  at  him  or  at  anything  in  the  range 
of  her  vision.  She  shuddered  and  abruptly  seized  her 
left  wrist  with  her  right  hand,  as  Lanstron  had  in  the 
arbor,  which  had  brought  her  cry  of  "I'm  hurting  you!" 
In  this  inscrutable  attitude  she  was  silent  for  a  time. 

"Let  it  remain — it  means  so  much  to  you!"  she  said 
wildly,  and  hurried  past  him  still  clasping  her  wrist. 

He  stared  into  the  darkness  that  closed  around  her. 
With  the  last  sound  of  her  footsteps  he  became  another 
Gustave  Feller,  who,  all  mercurial  vivacity,  clucked  his 
tongue  against  the  roof  of  his  mouth  with  a  "La,  la,  la!" 
as  his  hand  shot  out  for  the  receiver.  There  it  paused, 
and  still  another  idea  animated  still  another  Gustave 
Feller. 

"Why  not  tear  out  the  telephone — why  not?"  he 
mused.  "Why  didn't  I  agree  to  her  plan?  Why  can't 
I  ever  carry  more  than  one  thing  in  mind  at  once?  I 
forgot  that  we  were  at  war.  I  forget  that  I  am  already 
at  the  front.  I  have  skill!  God  knows,  I  ought  to  have 
courage !  Volunteers  who  have  both  are  always  welcome 
in  war.  Any  number  of  gunners  will  be  killed!  When 
an  artillery  colonel  saw  what  I  could  do  he  would  take 
me  on  without  further  questioning.  Then  I  should 
not  be  a  spy,  shuffling  and  whining,  but  bang-bang-bang 
on  the  target!" 

In  imagination  he  now  had  a  gun.  His  hand  made  a 
movement  of  manipulation,  head  bent,  eye  sighting. 

"How  do  you  like  that?  You  will  like  this  one  less! 
And  here's  another — but,  no,  no!"  He  dropped  against 
the  wall  again;  he  drove  his  nails  into  his  palms  in  a 
sort  of  castigation.  "I  am  the  same  as  a  soldier  now — 
a  soldier  assigned  to  a  definite  duty  for  my  flag.  I  should 
break  my  word  of  honor — a  soldier's  word  of  honor! 
No,  not  that  again!" 

He  snatched  down  the  receiver  to  make  sure  that 


SHE  CHANGES  HER  MIND  199 

temptation  did  not  reappear  in  too  luring  a  guise,  and 
still  another  Gustave  Feller  was  in  the  ascendant. 

"Didn't  I  say  to  trust  it  to  me,  Lanny?"  he  called 
merrily.  "Miss  Galland  consents  1" 

"  She  does?    Good !    Good  for  you,  Gustave ! " 

"Her  second  thought,"  Feller  rejoined.  "And, 
Lanny,"  he  proceeded  in  boyish  enthusiasm,  using  a 
slang  word  of  military  school  days,  "it  was  bulludgeous 
the  way  we  brought  down  their  planes  and  dirigibles! 
How  I  ache  to  be  in  it  when  the  guns  are  so  busy!  With 
batteries  back  of  the  house  and  an  automatic  in  the  yard, 
things  seem  very  homelike.  I — 

"Gustave,"  interrupted  Lanstron,  "we  all  have  our 
weaknesses,  and  perhaps  yours  is  to  play  a  part.  So  keep 
away  from  the  fight  and  don't  think  of  the  guns!" 

"I  will,  I  swear!"  Feller  answered  fervently.  "One 
thought,  one  duty!  I'll  'phone  you  when  the  house  is 
taken,  and  if  you  don't  hear  from  me  again,  why,  you'll 
know  the  plan  has  failed  and  I'm  a  prisoner.  But,  trust 
me,  Lanny!  Trust  me — for  my  flag  and  my  country 
against  the  invader!" 

"Against  the  invader — that  justifies  all!  And  get 
Miss  Galland  out  of  it.  You  seem  to  have  influence 
with  her.  Get  her  out  of  it!" 

"Trust  me!" 

"Bless  you,  and  God  with  you!" 

"One  thought,  one  duty!"  repeated  Feller  with  the 
devoutness  of  a  monk  trying  to  forget  everything  except 
his  aves  as  he  started  toward  the  stairway.  "I  wonder 
if  we  still  hold  the  knoll!"  he  mused,  extinguishing  the 
lantern.  "We  do!  we  do!"  he  cried  when  he  was  in 
the  doorway.  "Oh,  this  is  life!"  he  added  after  a  deep- 
drawn  breath,  watching  the  little  clouds  of  shrapnel 
smoke  here  and  there  along  the  base  of  the  range. 


XXII 
FLOWERS  FOR  THE  WOUNDED 

WAS  there  nothing  for  Marta  to  do?  Could  she  only 
look  on  in  a  fever  of  restlessness  while  action  roared 
around  her?  On  the  way  from  the  tower  to  the  house 
the  sight  of  several  automobile  ambulances  in  the  road 
at  the  foot  of  the  garden  stilled  the  throbs  of  distrac 
tion  in  her  temples  with  an  answer.  The  wounded! 
They  were  already  coming  in  from  the  field.  She 
hurried  down  the  terrace  steps.  The  major  surgeon  in 
charge,  surprised  to  find  any  woman  in  the  vicinity,  was 
about  to  tell  her  so  automatically;  then,  in  view  of  her 
intensity,  he  waited  for  her  to  speak. 

"You  will  let  us  do  something  for  them?"  Marta 
asked.  "We  will  make  them  some  hot  soup." 

He  was  immediately  businesslike.  No  less  than  Del- 
larme  or  Fracasse  or  Lanstron  or  Westerling,  he  had  been 
preparing  throughout  his  professional  career  for  this 
hour.  The  detail  of  caring  for  the  men  who  were  down 
had  been  worked  out  no  less  systematically  than  that 
of  wounding  them. 

"Thank  you,  no!  We  don't  want  to  waste  time,"  he 
replied.  "We  must  get  them  away  with  all  speed  so 
that  the  ambulances  may  return  promptly.  It's  only  a 
fifteen-minute  run  to  the  hospital,  where  every  comfort 
and  appliance  are  ready  and  where  they  will  be  given 
the  right  things  to  eat." 

"Then  we  will  give  them  some  wine!"  Marta  per 
sisted. 

"Not  if  we  can  prevent  it !    Not  to  start  hemorrhages ! 

200 


FLOWERS  FOR  THE  WOUNDED         201 

The  field  doctors  have  brandy  for  use  when  advisable, 
and  there  is  brandy  with  all  the  ambulances." 

Clearly,  volunteer  service  was  not  wanted.  There 
was  no  room  at  the  immediate  front  for  Florence  Night 
ingales  in  the  modern  machine  of  war. 

" Then  water?" 

The  major  surgeon  aimed  to  be  patient  to  an  earnest, 
attractive  young  woman. 

"We  have  sterilized  water — we  have  everything,"  he 
explained.  "If  we  hadn't  at  this  early  stage  I  ought  to 
be  serving  an  apprenticeship  in  a  village  apothecary 
shop.  Anything  that  means  confusion,  delay,  unneces 
sary  excitement  is  bad  and  unmerciful." 

Marta  was  not  yet  at  the  end  of  her  resources.  The 
recollection  of  the  dying  private  who  had  asked  her 
mother  for  a  rose  in  the  last  war  flashed  into  mind. 

"You  haven't  flowers!  They  won't  do  any  harm, 
even  if  they  aren't  sterilized.  The  wounded  like  flowers, 
don't  they?  Don't  you  like  flowers?  Look!  We've 
millions!" 

"Yes,  I  do.  They  do.  A  good  idea.  Bring  all  the 
flowers  you  want  to." 

The  major  surgeon's  smile  to  Marta  was  not  alto 
gether  on  account  of  her  suggestion.  "It  ought  to 
help  anybody  who  was  ever  wounded  anywhere  in  the 
world  to  have  you  give  him  a  flower!"  he  was  thinking. 

She  ran  for  an  armful  of  blossoms  and  was  back  before 
the  arrival  of  the  first  wounded  man  who  preceded  the 
stretchers  on  foot.  He  was  holding  up  a  hand  bound 
in  a  white  first-aid  bandage  which  had  a  red  spot  in  the 
centre.  Those  hit  in  hand  or  arm,  if  the  surgeon's 
glance  justified  it,  were  sent  on  up  the  road  to  a  point 
a  mile  distant,  where  transportation  in  requisitioned 
vehicles  was  provided.  These  men  were  triumphant 
in  their  cheerfulness.  They  were  alive;  they  had  done 
their  duty,  and  they  had  the  proof  of  it  in  the  coming 
souvenirs  of  scars. 

Some  of  the  forms  on  stretchers  had  peaceful  faces  in 


202  THE  LAST  SHOT 

unconsciousness  of  their  condition.  Others  had  a  look 
of  wonder,  of  pain,  of  apprehension  in  their  consciousness 
that  death  might  be  near.  The  single  word  "Shrapnel ! " 
by  a  hospital-corps  corporal  told  the  story  of  crushed 
or  lacerated  features,  in  explanation  of  a  white  cloth 
covering  a  head  with  body  uninjured. 

Feller,  strolling  out  into  the  garden  under  the  spell 
of  watching  shell  bursts,  saw  what  Marta  was  doing. 
With  the  same  feeling  of  relief  at  opportunity  for  action 
that  she  had  felt,  he  hastened  to  assist  her,  bringing 
flowers  by  the  basketful  and  pausing  to  watch  her  dis 
tribute  them — watching  her  rather  than  the  wounded 
and  enjoying  incidental  thrills  at  examples  of  the  effi 
ciency  of  artillery  fire. 

"The  guns — the  guns  are  going  to  play  a  great  part!" 
he  thought.  "These  rapid-firers  will  recover  all  the 
artillery's  prestige  of  Napoleon's  time!" 

Many  of  the  wounded  themselves  looked  at  Marta 
even  more  than  at  the  flowers.  It  was  good  to  see  the 
face  of  a  woman,  her  eyes  limpid  with  sympathy,  and 
it  was  not  what  she  said  but  the  way  she  spoke  that 
brought  smiles  in  response  to  hers.  For  she  was  no 
solemn  ministering  angel,  but  high-spirited,  cheery,  of 
the  sort  that  the  major  surgeon  would  have  chosen  to 
distribute  flowers  to  the  men,  Every  remark  of  the 
victims  of  war  made  its  distinct  and  indelible  impression 
on  the  gelatine  of  her  mind. 

"I  like  my  blue  aster  better  than  that  yellow  weed  of 
yours,  Tom!" 

"You  didn't  know  Ed  Schmidt  got  it?  Yes,  he  was 
right  next  me  in  the  line." 

"Say,  did  you  notice  Dellarme's  smile?  It  was  won 
derful." 

"And  old  Bert  Stransky!  I  heard  him  whistling  the 
wedding  march  as  he  fired," 

"Miss,  I'll  keep  this  flower  forever!" 

"They  say  Billy  Lister  will  live — his  cheek  was  shot 
away!" 


FLOWERS  FOR  THE  WOUNDED         203 

"Once  we  got  going  I  didn't  mind.  It  seemed  as  if 
I'd  been  fighting  for  years!" 

"Hole  no  bigger  than  a  lead-pencil.  I'll  be  back  in  a 
week!" 

"Yes;  don't  these  little  bullets  make  neat  little  holes?" 

"We  certainly  gave  them  a  surprise  when  they  came 
up  the  hill !  I  wonder  if  we  missed  the  fellow  that  jumped 
into  the  shell  crater!" 

"Our  company  got  it  worst!" 

"Not  any  worse  than  ours,  I'll  wager!" 

"Oh — oh — can't  you  go  easier?  Oh-h-h — "  the  groan 
ending  in  a  clenching  of  the  teeth. 

"Hello,  Jake!  You  here,  too,  and  going  in  my  auto 
mobile?  And  we've  both  got  lower  berths!" 

"  Sh-h !    That  poor  chap's  dying ! " 

Worst  of  all  to  Marta  was  the  case  of  a  shrapnel 
fracture  of  the  cranium,  with  the  resulting  delirium,  in 
which  the  sufferer's  incoherence  included  memories  of 
childhood  scenes,  moments  on  the  firing-line,  calls  for 
his  mother,  and  prayers  to  be  put  out  of  misery.  A 
prod  of  the  hypodermic  from  the  major  surgeon,  and 
"On  the  operating- table  in  fifteen  minutes"  was  the 
answer  to  Marta's  question  if  the  poor  fellow  would  live. 

Until  dark,  in  groups,  at  intervals,  and  again  singly, 
the  wounded  were  coming  in  from  a  brigade  front  in 
the  region  where  the  rifles  were  crackling  and  the  shrap 
nel  clouds  were  hanging  prettily  over  the  hills;  and 
stretchers  were  being  slipped  into  place  in  the  ambu 
lances,  while  Marta  kept  at  her  post. 

"We  shan't  have  much  more  to  do  at  this  station," 
said  the  major  surgeon  when  a  plodding  section  of  in 
fantry  in  retreat  arrived. 


XXIII 
STRANSKY  FIGHTS  ALONE 

EVERY  unit  engrossed  in  his  own  work!  Every  man 
taught  how  a  weak  link  may  break  a  chain  and  realizing 
himself  as  a  link  and  only  a  link!  The  captain  of  en 
gineers  forgot  Marta's  existence  as  an  error  of  his  sub 
ordinates  caught  his  eye,  and  he  went  to  caution  the  axe 
men  to  cut  closer  to  the  ground,  as  stumps  gave  cover 
for  riflemen.  For  the  time  being  he  had  no  more  in 
terest  in  the  knoll  than  in  the  wreckage  of  dirigibles 
which  were  down  and  out  of  the  fight. 

After  all,  the  knoll  was  only  a  single  point  on  the  vast 
staff  map — only  one  of  many  points  of  a  struggle  whose 
progress  was  bulletined  through  the  siftings  of  regi 
mental,  brigade,  division,  and  corps  headquarters  in 
net  results  to  the  staff.  Partow  and  Lanstron  over 
looked  all.  Their  knowledge  made  the  vast  map  live 
under  their  eyes.  But  our  concern  is  with  the  story  of 
two  regiments,  and  particularly  of  two  companies,  and 
that  is  story  enough.  If  you  would  grasp  the  whole, 
multiply  the  conflict  on  the  knoll  by  ten  thousand. 

There  had  been  the  engrossment  of  transcendent 
emotion  in  repelling  the  charge.  What  followed  was 
like  some  grim  and  passionless  trance  with  triggers 
ticking  off  the  slow-passing  minutes.  Dellarme  aimed 
to  keep  down  the  fusillade  from  Fracasse's  trench  and 
yet  not  to  neglect  the  fair  targets  of  the  reserves  ad 
vancing  by  rushes  to  the  support  of  the  i28th.  Rein 
forced,  the  gray  streak  at  the  bottom  of  the  slope  poured 
in  a  heavier  fire.  Above  the  steady  crackle  of  bullets 
sent  and  the  whistle  of  bullets  received  rose  the  cry  of 

204 


STRANSKY  FIGHTS  ALONE  205 

"Doctor!  Doctor!"  which  meant  each  time  that  an 
other  Brown  rifle  had  been  silenced.  The  litter  bearers, 
hard  pressed  to  remove  the  wounded,  left  the  dead. 
Already  death  was  a  familiar  sight — an  article  of  ex 
change  in  which  Dellarme's  men  dealt  freely.  The  man 
at  Stransky 's  side  had  been  killed  outright.  He  lay 
face  down  on  his  rifle  stock.  His  cap  had  fallen  off. 
Stransky  put  it  back  on  the  man's  head,  and  the  exam 
ple  was  followed  in  other  cases.  It  was  a  good  idea 
to  keep  up  a  show  of  a  full  line  of  caps  to  the  enemy. 

Suddenly,  as  by  command,  the  fire  from  the  base  of 
the  knoll  ceased  altogether.  Dellarme  understood  at 
once  what  this  meant — the  next  step  in  the  course  of  a 
systematic,  irresistible  approach  by  superior  numbers. 
It  was  to  allow  the  ground  scouts  to  advance.  In 
dividual  gray  spots  detaching  themselves  from  the  gray 
streak  began  to  crawl  upward  in  search  of  dead  spaces 
where  the  contour  of  the  ground  would  furnish  some  pro 
tection  from  the  blaze  of  bullets  from  the  crest. 

"Over  their  heads!  Don't  try  to  hit  them!"  Del 
larme  passed  the  word. 

"That's  it!  Spare  one  to  get  a  dozen! "  said  Stransky, 
grinning  in  ready  comprehension.  He  seemed  to  be 
grinning  every  time  that  Dellarme  looked  in  that  direc 
tion.  He  was  plainly  enjoying  himself.  His  restless 
nature  had  found  sport  to  its  taste. 

The  creeping  scouts  must  have  signalled  back  good 
news,  for  groups  began  crawling  slowly  after  them. 

"Over  their  heads!  Encourage  them!"  Dellarme 
commanded. 

After  they  had  advanced  two  or  three  hundred  yards 
they  stopped,  shoulders  and  hands  exposed  in  silhouette, 
and  began  to  work  feverishly  with  their  spades. 

"Now  let  them  have  it!"' 

"Oh,  beautiful!"  cried  Stransky.  "That  baby  cap 
tain  of  ours  has  some  brains,  after  all!  We'll  get  them 
now  and  we'll  get  them  when  they  run!" 

But  they  did  not  run.     Unfalteringly  they  took  their 


206  THE  LAST  SHOT 

punishment  while  they  turned  over  the  protecting  sod 
in  the  midst  of  their  own  dead  and  wounded.  In  a 
few  minutes  they  had  dropped  spades  for  rifles,  and  other 
sections  either  crawled  or  ran  forward  precipitately  and 
fell  to  the  task  of  joining  the  isolated  beginnings  into  a 
single  trench. 

Again  Dellarme  looked  toward  regimental  headquar 
ters,  his  fixed,  cheery  smile  not  wholly  masking  the 
appeal  in  his  eyes.  The  Grays  had  only  two  or  three 
hundred  yards  to  go  when  they  should  make  their  next 
charge  in  order  to  reach  the  crest.  But  his  men  had 
fifteen  hundred  to  go  in  the  valley  before  they  were  out 
of  range.  After  their  brave  resistance  facing  the  enemy 
they  would  receive  a  hail  of  bullets  in  their  backs.  This 
was  the  time  to  withdraw  if  there  were  to  be  assurance 
of  a  safe  retreat.  But  there  was  no  signal.  Until  there 
was,  he  must  remain. 

The  trench  grew;  the  day  wore  on.  Two  rifles  to  one 
were  now  playing  against  his  devoted  company,  which 
had  had  neither  food  nor  drink  since  early  morning. 
As  he  scanned  his  thinning  line  he  saw  a  look  of  blood- 
lessness  and  hopelessness  gathering  on  the  set  faces  of 
which  he  had  grown  so  fond  during  this  ordeal.  Some 
of  the  men  were  crouching  too  much  for  effective  aim. 

"See  that  you  fire  low!  Keep  your  heads  up!"  he 
called.  "For  your  homes,  your  country,  and  your 
God!  Pass  the  word  along!" 

Parched  throat  after  parched  throat  repeated  the 
message  hoarsely  and  leaden  shoulders  raised  a  trifle 
and  dust-matted  eyelashes  narrowed  sharply  on  the 
sights. 

"For  the  man  in  us!"  growled  Stransky.  "For  the 
favor  of  nature  at  birth  that  gave  us  the  right  to  wear 
trousers  instead  of  skirts!  For  the  joy  of  hell,  give  them 
hell!" 

"For  our  homes!  For  the  man  in  us! "  they  repeated, 
swallowing  the  words  as  if  they  had  the  taste  of  a  stimu 
lant. 


STRANSKY  FIGHTS  ALONE  207 

But  Dellarme  knew  that  it  would  not  take  much  to 
precipitate  a  break.  He  himself  felt  that  he  had  been 
on  that  knoll  half  a  lifetime.  He  looked  at  his  watch 
and  it  was  five  o'clock.  For  seven  hours  they  had  held 
on.  The  Grays'  trench  was  complete  the  breadth  of  the 
slope ;  more  reserves  were  coming  up.  The  brigade  com 
mander  of  the  Grays  was  going  to  make  sure  that  the 
next  charge  succeeded. 

At  last  Dellarme's  glance  toward  regimental  head 
quarters  showed  the  flag  that  was  the  signal  for  with 
drawal.  Could  he  accomplish  it?  The  first  lieuten 
ant,  with  a  shattered  arm,  had  gone  on  a  litter.  The 
old  sergeant  was  dead,  a  victim  of  the  colonial  wars. 
Used  to  fighting  savage  enemies,  he  had  been  too  eager 
in  exposing  himself  to  a  civilized  foe.  He  had  been  shot 
through  the  throat. 

"Men  of  the  first  section,"  Dellarme  called,  "you  will 
slip  out  of  line  with  the  greatest  care  not  to  let  the  en 
emy  know  that  you  are  going!" 

"Going — going!  Careful!  Men  of  the  first  section 
going!"  the  parched  throats  repeated  in  a  thrilling 
whisper. 

"Those  who  remain  keep  increasing  their  fire!" 
called  Dellarme  again.  "Cover  the  whole  breadth  of 
the  trench!" 

Every  fourth  man  wormed  himself  backward  on  his 
stomach  until  he  was  below  the  sky-line,  when  his  stif 
fened  limbs  brought  him  to  his  feet  and  he  started  on  a 
dead  run  down  into  the  valley  and  toward  a  cut  behind 
another  knoll  across  the  road  from  the  Galland  house. 

"Tom  Fragini,  with  your  corporal  dead  I  put  you 
in  charge  of  the  first  section!  What  are  you  waiting 
for,  Corporal  Fragini?" 

Tom  was  bending  over  Grandfather  Fragini,  who  had 
been  forgotten  by  everybody  in  the  ordeal.  The  old 
man  was  lying  where  he  had  fallen  after  the  first  burst 
of  shrapnel. 

"Can't  go!     Got   a  game   leg!"    said   grandfather, 


208  THE  LAST  SHOT 

pointing  to  a  swollen  ankle  that  had  been  bruised  by  a 
piece  of  shrapnel  jacket  that  had  lost  most  of  its  velocity 
before  striking  him.  "You  do  your  duty  and  leave  me 
alone.  I  ain't  a  fighting  man  any  more.  I  done  my 
work  when  I  steadied  you  young  fellows." 

"Yes,  go  on,  Fragini,"  said  Dellarme.  "Attend  to 
your  men.  Everybody  in  his  place.  We'll  get  the  old 
man  away  on  a  litter." 

"Yes,  you  go  or  you  ain't  any  grandson  of  mine!" 
shouted  the  old  man  in  a  high-pitched  voice,  "Just 
been  promoted,  too!  You'll  be  up  for  insubordination 
in  a  minute,  you  young  whelp!" 

Dellarme  meant  to  look  after  grandfather,  but  his  at 
tention  was  engrossed  in  seeing  that  his  men  withdrew 
cautiously,  for  every  minute  that  he  was  able  to  delay 
the  enemy's  charge  was  vital.  He  himself  picked  up  a 
rifle  in  order  to  increase  the  volume  of  fire  when  the  third 
section  was  starting.  As  the  fourth  and  last  section 
drew  off  he  uttered  his  first  cry  of  triumph  of  the  day  as 
his  final  look  revealed  the  Grays  still  in  place.  But  they 
would  not  wait  long  once  all  fire  from  the  knoll  had 
ceased.  Stransky,  who  was  in  the  fourth  section,  re 
mained  to  give  a  parting  shot. 

"Good-by,  d—  -  you!"  he  called  to  the  Grays. 
"You'll  hear  more  from  me  later!" 

Then  Dellarme  saw  that  grandfather  had  not  yet  been 
carried  away  and  no  litters  remained.  What  was  to 
be  done?  Grandfather  was  prompt  with  his  own  view. 

"Just  leave  me  behind.  I've  done  my  work,  I  tell 
you!"  he  declared. 

"Can't  lose  you,  grandpop!"  said  Stransky. 

Quickly  shifting  his  pack  to  the  ground,  he  squatted 
with  his  back  to  the  old  man. 

"I  ain't  going  to — and  you're  a  traitor,  anyway; 
that's  what  you  are!" 

"No  back  talk!  No  politics  in  this!"  Stransky  re 
plied.  "Get  up!  You  carry  your  skin  and  I'll  carry 
your  bones.  Get  up  quick!" 


STRANSKY  FIGHTS  ALONE  209 

With  Dellarme's  authoritative  assistance  grandfather 
mounted.  Then  Dellarme  put  Stransky's  pack  on  his 
own  back. 

"Let  me  carry  your  rifle,  too,"  he  said  to  Stransky 
as  they  started. 

"Not  much!"  answered  Stransky.  "I  was  just  mar 
ried  to  that  rifle  this  morning.  We're  on  our  honey 
moon  trip  and  getting  fairly  well  acquainted,  and  ex 
pect  shortly  to  settle  down  to  a  busy  domestic  life." 

He  set  off  at  a  lope  and  gained  the  rear  of  the  section 
in  his  first  burst  of  speed.  As  the  other  men  got  their 
second  wind,  however,  Stransky  began  to  puff  and  they 
soon  drew  away  from  him. 

"Put  me  down!  I  ain't  going  to  depend  on  any 
traitor  that  insulted  the  flag!"  protested  grandfather. 

"That's  the  way!  Call  out  to  me  now  and  then  so 
I'll  know  you're  there,"  said  Stransky.  "You're  so 
light  I  mightn't  know  it  if  you  fell  off." 

Dellarme  did  not  think  it  right  to  expose  the  last 
section  by  asking  it  to  delay.  Shepherd  of  his  flock 
and  miser  of  his  pieces  of  gold,  now  that  their  work  was 
done  the  one  thing  he  wanted  in  the  world  was  that  they 
should  escape  without  further  punishment.  Already  the 
van  of  the  first  section  was  disappearing  into  the  cut 
in  safety.  But  the  fourth  section,  which  had  held  to 
the  last,  had  yet  a  thousand  yards  to  go  over  a  path 
bare  of  cover  except  a  single  small  bush.  At  any  mo 
ment  he  expected  to  hear  a  cheer  from  the  knoll,  and 
what  would  follow  the  cheer  he  knew  only  too  well.  Yet 
he  tarried  with  Stransky  out  of  one  man's  impulse  not 
to  desert  another  in  danger.  At  the  same  time  he  was 
wroth  with  the  old  man  for  having  made  such  a  nuisance 
of  himself. 

"What  are  you  waiting  for?"  Stransky  demanded  of 
Dellarme. 

"I  like  good  company,"  answered  Dellarme  cheerfully. 

"Compliment  for  you,  grandfather!"  said  Stransky. 

"Put  me  down!"  screamed  grandfather. 


210  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"  Still  there,  eh?  Thanks,  grandpop!"  said  Stransky, 
turning  on  Dellarme.  "  Can't  you  run  any  faster  than 
that,  captain?  Your  place  is  with  your  men,  sir.  If 
you  got  wounded  I'd  have  to  carry  you,  too.  Your 
company's  gaining  on  you  every  minute.  Hurry  up!" 

From  the  peremptory  way  that  he  spoke,  Dellarme 
might  have  been  the  private  and  Stransky  the  officer. 

" Right!"  said  Dellarme  in  face  of  such  unanswer 
able  military  logic,  and  broke  into  a  run. 

Stransky  adapted  himself  to  a  pace  which  he  thought 
he  could  maintain,  and  plodded  on,  eyes  on  the  bush  as  a 
half-way  point.  After  a  while  he  heard  a  mighty  hur 
rah,  which  was  cut  short  abruptly;  then  spits  of  dust 
about  their  feet  hastened  the  steps  of  the  last  section, 
which  was  near  the  cut.  He  saw  men  drop  out  of  line 
to  make  a  cradle  of  their  arms  for  comrades  who  had  been 
hit;  and  these  finally  passed  out  of  danger  with  their 
burdens. 

"No  flock  in  sight!  It's  the  turn  of  the  individual 
birds!"  thought  Stransky,  and  heard  a  familiar  sound 
about  his  ears. 

"Bullets!"  exclaimed  grandfather.  "Don't  whistle 
like  they  used  to.  They  kind  of  crack  and  sizzle  now. 
Maybe  if  they  hit  me  I'll  stop  'em,  and  that'll  save  you." 

"That's  so,"  replied  Stransky  glumly,  realizing  that 
he  was  running  with  a  human  shield  on  his  back.  "But 
they'll  go  right  through  him  he's  so  thin,"  he  thought 
in  relief.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  he  had  to  receive 
without  sending,  which  made  him  boil  with  rage.  He 
wished  that  the  bush  had  legs  so  it  could  run  toward 
him;  he  half  believed  that  it  had  and  was  retreating. 
"They're  shooting  right  at  us,  and  that's  in  our  favor. 
It's  hard  to  get  the  bull's-eye  at  that  range,"  he  assured 
grandfather. 

Whish-whish-whish !  Enough  pellets  were  singing  by 
to  have  torn  away  the  rim  of  the  target,  yet  none  got 
the  centre  before  Stransky  dropped  behind  the  bush. 
Blessed  bush!  Back  of  it  was  a  bowlder.  Thrice-blessed 


STRANSKY  FIGHTS  ALONE  211 

bowlder!  It  protected  grandfather  as  securely  as  the 
armor  of  a  battleship. 

"We  are  having  a  noisy  time,"  remarked  Stransky  as 
two  or  three  of  the  leaves  fell.  " Intelligent  thieves! 
How  did  you  guess  we  were  here?"  and  he  put  his  big 
thumb  to  his  big  nose. 

"But  they  didn't  know  about  the  bowlder!"  said  the 
old  man  with  a  senile  giggle.  "Say,  I  didn't  mean  it 
when  I  called  you  a  traitor — not  after  the  fight!  I 
just  said  that  to  make  you  mad  so  you'd  put  me  down 
and  we  shouldn't  lose  a  good  fighting  man  trying  to 
save  an  old  bag  of  bones  like  me.  You  ain't  no  traitor! 
You're  a  patriot!" 

"More  politics,  when  I'm  simply  full  of  cussedness!" 
grumbled  Stransky.  "Not  having  any  home,  I'm  fight 
ing  to  save  the  other  fellows'  homes,  principally  because 
I  was  married  this  morning  by  a  shrapnel-shell  to  a 
lady  that  understands  me  perfectly.  Say,  shall  we 
give  them  a  few?"  he  asked  with  a  squint  down  the 
bridge  of  his  nose  as  he  took  up  his  rifle. 

"Yes,  give  'em  a  few!"  grandfather  urged  when  they 
ought  to  have  remained  quiet,  as  the  firing  was  dying 
down.  It  was  not  worth  while  to  shoot  at  a  bush,  and 
after  all  the  torrent  of  lead  that  they  had  poured  into 
the  bush  the  Grays  had  concluded  that  nothing  behind 
it  could  remain  alive. 

Stransky  aimed  at  a  head  and  shoulder  on  the  sky-line, 
which  he  took  for  those  of  an  officer,  and  was  accurate 
enough  to  make  the  head  and  shoulders  duck  and  to  get 
a  swarm  of  bullets  in  return. 

"Children,  why  will  you  waste  your  country's  am 
munition?"  said  Stransky,  firing  again. 

"That's  the  way  to  talk!"  said  grandfather  approv 
ingly.  "Nothing  like  a  little  gayety  and  ginger  in  war." 

Now  a  Brown  battery  whose  fire  could  be  spared  from 
other  work  dropped  a  few  shells  on  the  knoll  and  so 
occupied  the  attention  of  the  12  8th  that  it  had  no  time 
to  attend  to  occasional  bullets  from  snipers. 


212  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"Think  we're  no  account!  Shall  we  charge  them 
now  we've  got  the  support  of  the  guns?"  chuckled 
Stransky. 

"You  Hussar,  you!"  Grandfather  gave  Stransky  a 
slap  on  the  back.  "With  a  thousand  like  you  we  could 
charge  the  whole  army,  if  the  general  would  let  us!" 

"But  he  wouldn't  let  us,"  replied  Stransky.  "I  could 
even  tell  you  why." 

With  the  shadows  gathering  he  slipped  back  to  grand 
father's  side,  and  after  it  was  quite  dark  he  said  that  it 
was  time  for  the  old  Hussar  to  mount  his  fiery  steed. 
Grandfather's  hands  slipped  from  around  Stransky's 
neck  at  the  first  trial;  with  the  next,  Stransky  took  the 
bony  fingers  in  his  grip  and  held  them  clasped  on  his 
chest  with  one  hand,  proceeding  as  quietly  as  he  could, 
for  he  had  an  idea  that  the  Grays  were  already  moving 
down  from  the  knoll  under  cover  of  night. 

"Yes,  sir,  I'm  glad  I  came!"  said  grandfather  faintly 
and  meanderingly.  "I  wasn't  sure  about  Tom — all  this 
new-fangled  education  and  these  uniforms  without  any 
color  in  'em.  But  I  saw  him  firing  away  steady  as  a 
rock;  yes,  sir!  I  was  in  it,  too,  under  fire!  It  made 
my  heart  thump-thump  like  the  old  days.  And  we're 
going  to  hold  'em — we're  going  to  teach  the  land-sharks 
—I'm  very  happy — made  my  heart  thump  so — kind  of 
tired  me— 

The  old  man's  voice  died  away  into  silence.  His 
knees  weakened  their  grip  and  his  legs  swung  pendulum- 
like  with  Stransky's  steps. 

"What  about  me  for  a  sleeping-car!"  thought  Stran 
sky.  "But  he's  certainly  harder  to  carry." 

Yet  it  pleased  Stransky  not  to  waken  his  passenger 
until  they  reached  the  station  his  ticket  called  for. 
Entering  the  cut,  he  was  halted  by  the  challenging  cry 
of  "Who  goes  there?"  in  his  own  tongue. 

"  Stransky  of  the  Reds ! "  he  roared  back.  "  Stransky, 
private  of  the  53d — Stransky  and  his  bride  and  grand 
father!" 


STRANSKY  FIGHTS  ALONE  213 

"All  right,  Bert!"  was  the  answer.  "Hurrah  for 
you!  I'd  know  your  old  bull  voice  out  of  a  thousand." 

Even  this  did  not  arouse  grandfather.  Stransky 
trudged  on  past  the  sentry,  across  a  road  and  up  three 
series  of  steps  of  a  garden  terrace,  through  a  breach  in  a 
breastwork  of  sand-bags,  and  was  again  at  home — the 
only  home  he  knew — among  the  comrades  of  his  com 
pany.  Most  of  them  had  fallen  asleep  on  the  ground 
after  finishing  their  rations,  logs  of  men  in  animal  ex 
haustion.  Some  of  those  awake  were  too  weary  to  give 
more  than  a  nod  and  smile  and  an  exclamation  of  de 
light.  They  had  witnessed  too  much  horror  that  day  to 
be  excited  over  a  soldier  with  an  old  man  on  his  back. 
A  few  of  the  others,  including  Tom  Fragini,  gathered 
around  the  pair. 

" We've  arrived,  grandfather!"  said  Stransky,  squat 
ting.  There  was  no  answer.  "He  certainly  sleeps  sound. 
I  wonder  if 

"Yes,"  said  Dellarme,  who  with  Tom  eased  the  fall 
of  the  limp  body. 

The  thumping  of  an  old  man's  heart  with  the  youth 
of  a  Hussar  had  been  too  much  for  it. 

"He  was  game!"  said  Stransky.  "There  isn't  much 
in  this  world  except  to  be  game,  I've  concluded;  and  you 
can't  be  so  old  or  so  poor  or  so  big-nosed  and  wall-eyed 
that  you  can't  be  game." 

Marta,  coming  out  on  the  veranda,  had  not  heard  his 
remark,  but  she  had  seen  a  leonine  sort  of  private  bearing 
an  old  man  on  his  back  and  had  guessed  that  he  had 
remained  behind  to  save  a  life  when  every  man  in  uni 
form  had  been  engaged  in  taking  life. 

"You  are  tired!  You  are  hungry!"  she  said  with  ur 
gent  gentleness.  "Come  in!" 

He  followed  her  into  the  house  and  dropped  on  a 
leather  chair  before  a  shining  table  in  a  room  panelled 
with  oak,  wondering  at  her  and  at  himself.  No  woman 
of  Marta's  world  had  ever  spoken  in  that  way  to  him. 
But  it  was  good  to  sit  down.  Then  a  maid  with  a 


2i4  THE  LAST  SHOT 

sad,  winsome  face  and  tender  eyes  brought  him  wine 
and  bread  and  cold  meat  and  jam.  He  gulped  down  a 
glassful  of  the  wine;  he  ate  with  great  mouthfuls  in  the 
ravenous  call  of  healthy,  exhausted  tissues,  while  the 
maid  stood  by  to  cut  more  bread. 

"When  it  comes  to  eating  after  fighting- 
He  looked  up  when  the  first  pangs  of  hunger  were 
assuaged.  Enormous,  broad-shouldered,  physical,  his 
cheeks  flushed  with  the  wine,  his  eyes  opened  wide  and 
brilliant  with  the  fire  that  was  in  his  nature — eyes  that 
spoke  the  red  business  of  anarchy  and  war. 

"Say,  but  you're  pretty !" 

Springing  up,  he  caught  her  hand  and  made  to  kiss 
her  in  the  brashness  of  impulse.  Minna  struck  him  a 
stinging  blow  in  the  face.  He  received  it  as  a  mastiff 
would  receive  a  bite  from  a  pup,  and  she  stood  her 
ground,  her  eyes  challenging  his  fearlessly. 

"So  you  are  like  that!"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "It 
was  a  good  one,  and  you  meant  it,  too." 

"Decidedly!"  she  answered.  "There's  more  where 
that  came  from!" 

"As  I  was  telling  the  Grays  this  afternoon!  Good 
for  you!"  He  sat  down  again  composedly,  while  she 
glared  at  him.  "I'm  still  hungry.  I've  had  wine  enough ; 
but  would  you  cut  me  another  slice  of  bread?" 

She  cut  another  slice  and  he  covered  it  generously 
with  jam.  Then  little  Clarissa  Eileen  entered  and 
pressed  against  her  mother's  skirts,  subjecting  Stransky 
to  childhood's  scrutiny.  He  waved  a  finger  at  her  and 
grinned  and  drew  his  eyes  together  in  a  squint  at  the 
bridge  of  his  nose,  making  a  funny  face  that  brought  a 
laugh. 

"Your  child?"  Stransky  asked  Minna. 

"Yes." 

"Where's  her  father?    Away  fighting?" 

"I  don't  know  where  he  is!" 

"Oh!"  he  mused.  "Was  that  blow  for  him  at  the 
same  time  as  for  me?"  he  pursued  thoughtfully. 


STRANSKY  FIGHTS  ALONE  215 

"Yes,  for  all  of  your  kind." 

"M-m-m!"  came  from  between  his  lips  as  he  rose. 
" Would  you  mind  holding  out  your  hand?"  he  asked 
with  a  gentleness  singularly  out  of  keeping  with  his 
rough  aspect. 

"Why?"  she  demanded. 

"I've  never  studied  any  books  of  etiquette  of  polite 
society,  and  I  am  a  poor  sort  at  making  speeches,  any 
how.  But  I  want  to  kiss  a  good  woman's  hand  by  way 
of  apology.  I  never  kissed  one  in  my  life,  but  I'm 
getting  a  lot  of  new  experiences  to-day.  Will  you?" 

She  held  out  her  hand  at  arm's  length  and  flushed 
slightly  as  he  pressed  his  lips  to  it. 

"You  certainly  do  cut  thick  slices  of  bread,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "And  you  certainly  are  pretty,"  he  added, 
passing  out  of  the  door  as  jauntily  as  if  he  were  ready 
for  another  fight  and  just  in  time  to  see  the  colonel 
of  the  regiment  come  around  the  house.  He  stood  at 
the  salute,  half  proudly,  half  defiantly,  but  in  nowise 
humbly. 

"Well,  Major  Dellarme!"  was  the  colonel's  greeting 
of  the  company  commander. 

"Major?"  exclaimed  Dellarme. 

"Yes.  Partow  has  the  power.  Four  of  the  aviators 
have  iron  crosses  already  and  promotion,  too;  and  you 
are  a  major.  Company  G  got  into  a  mess  and  the  whole 
regiment  would  have  been  in  one  unless  you  held  on. 
So  I  let  you  stay.  It  all  came  out  right,  as  Lanstron 
planned — right  so  far.  But  your  losses  have  been  heavy 
and  here  you  are  in  the  thick  of  it  again.  Your  company 
may  change  places  with  Company  E,  which  has  had  a 
relatively  easy  time." 

"No,  sir;  we  would  prefer  to  stay,"  Dellarme  answered 
quietly. 

"Good!  Then  you  will  take  this  battalion  and  I'll 
transfer  Groller  to  Alvery's.  Bad  loss,  Alvery — shrap 
nel.  The  artillery  has  been  doing  ugly  work,  but  that 
is  all  in  favor  of  the  defensive.  If  we  can  hold  them  on 


2i6  THE  LAST  SHOT 

this  line  till  to-morrow  noon,  it's  all  we  want  for  the 
present,"  he  concluded. 

"We'll  hold  them!    Don't  worry!"  put  in  Stransky. 

If  a  private  had  spoken  to  a  colonel  in  this  fashion 
at  drill,  without  being  spoken  to,  it  would  have  been  a 
glaring  breach  of  military  etiquette.  Now  that  they 
were  at  war  it  was  different.  Real  comradeship  between 
officer  and  man  begins  with  war. 

"We  shall,  eh?"  chuckled  the  colonel.  "You  look 
big  enough  to  hold  anything,  young  man!  Here!  Isn't 
this  the  fellow  that  Lanstron  got  off?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Dellarme. 

"Well,  was  Lanstron  right?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Wonderful  man,  Lanstron!" 

"He  knows  just  a  little  too  much!"  Stransky  half 
growled. 


XXIV 
THE  MAKING  OF  A  HERO 

A  DIGRESSION,  this,  about  pale,  little  Peterkin,  the 
valet's  son,  whom  we  left  nibbling  a  biscuit  in  perfect 
security  after  his  leap  in  mortal  terror.  When  Fra- 
casse's  men  rose  from  their  trench  for  the  final  charge 
and  found  that  the  enemy  had  gone,  Peterkin,  hearing 
their  cheer  and  the  thunderous  tread  of  their  feet,  dared 
to  look  above  the  edge  of  the  shell  crater.  Here  was  his 
company  coming  and  he  not  in  the  ranks  where  he  be 
longed.  Of  course  he  ought  to  have  gone  back  with 
them  when  they  went;  whatever  they  did  he  ought  to 
do.  This  was  the  only  safe  way  for  one  of  his  incurable 
stupidity,  as  the  drill  sergeant  had  told  him  repeatedly. 

He  recognized  the  stocky  butcher's  son  and  other 
familiar  figures  among  his  comrades.  Their  legs,  unlike 
his,  had  not  been  paralyzed  with  fright;  they  had  been 
able  to  run.  He  was  in  an  absolute  minority  of  one, 
which  he  knew,  from  the  experience  of  his  twenty  years 
of  life  and  his  inheritance  as  a  valet's  son,  meant  that 
he  was  utterly  in  the  wrong.  In  a  minute  they  would  be 
sweeping  down  on  him.  They  would  be  jeering  him 
and  calling  him  a  rabbit  or  something  worse  for  hiding 
in  the  ground. 

Fright  prompted  him  to  a  fresh  impulse.  Picking  up 
his  rifle,  which  he  had  not  touched  since  his  leap,  he 
faced  toward  the  now  unoccupied  crest  of  the  knoll  and 
commenced  firing.  Meanwhile,  Fracasse's  men  had 
reached  the  point  where  their  first  charge  had  broken, 
marked  by  a  line  of  bodies,  including  that  of  the  man 
ufacturer's  son,  who  had  thought  that  war  would  be 
beneficial  as  a  deterrent  to  strikes  and  an  impetus  to 

217 


218  THE  LAST  SHOT 

industry,  lying  with  his  head  on  his  arm,  his  neck  twisted, 
and  the  whites  of  his  eyes  rolled  skyward.  In  a  spasm 
of  sickening  realization  of  how  impossible  it  was  for 
those  who  had  not  run  back  to  survive  between  two 
lines  of  fire,  they  heard  a  shot  from  the  ground  at  their 
feet  and  beheld  the  runt  of  the  company  in  the  act  of 
making  war  single-handed.  It  was  a  miracle!  It  was 
like  the  dead  coming  to  life! 

"Peterkin?" 

"Yes,  Peterkin!" 

"With  a  whole  skin!" 

Probably  it  was  a  great  mistake  for  him  to  have 
a  whole  skin,  thought  Peterkin.  He  scrambled  to  his 
feet  and  kept  pace  with  the  others,  hoping  that  he  would 
be  overlooked  in  the  ranks. 

"I'm  so  glad!  Dear  little  Peterkin!"  said  Hugo 
Mallin,  who  was  at  Peterkin's  side. 

His  knowledge  of  Hugo's  gentle  nature  convinced 
Peterkin  that  Hugo  was  trying  to  soften  the  forthcoming 
reprimand. 

When  their  feet  at  last  actually  stood  on  the  knoll 
which  had  dealt  death  to  their  ranks  and  they  saw  the 
brown  figures  of  the  enemy  that  had  driven  them  back  in 
full  flight,  the  men  of  the  i28th  felt  the  thrill  of  triumph 
won  in  the  face  of  bullets.  This  is  a  thrill  by  itself, 
primitive  and  masculine,  that  calls  the  imagination  of 
men  to  war  for  war's  sake.  Pilzer,  the  butcher's  son, 
wanted  to  kill  for  the  sheer  joy  and  revenge  of  killing. 
He  rejoiced  in  the  dead  and  the  blood  spots  that,  as 
clearly  as  the  trench  itself,  marked  the  line  that  Del- 
larme's  men  had  occupied  along  the  crest  of  the  knoll. 
It  pleased  him  to  use  one  of  the  bodies  as  a  rest  for  his 
rifle,  while  he  laid  his  sight  in  ecstasy  on  the  large  tar 
get  of  two  men  of  the  last  section  who  were  bringing  off 
one  of  the  wounded,  and  he  swore  when  they  got  away. 

"But  there's  another  out  there  all  alone!"  he  cried. 
"Better  say  your  prayers,  for  I'm  going  to  get  you,"  he 
whispered;  though,  as  we  know,  Stransky  was  not  hit. 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  HERO  219 

Peterkin  had  been  doing  his  best  to  make  amends  for 
past  errors  by  present  enthusiasm  of  application.  He 
fired  no  less  earnestly  than  the  butcher's  son.  Now  that 
Eugene  Aronson  was  dead,  Pilzer  had  become  Peterkin's 
chief  patron  and  guide.  He  would  be  doing  right  if 
he  did  what  that  brave  Pilzer  did,  he  was  thinking, 
while  he  was  conscious  of  Fracasse's  eyes  boring  into  his 
back.  With  the  others,  but  no  more  expeditiously, 
however  frightened,  he  fell  back  to  cover  from  the  burst 
of  shell  fire;  and  then,  with  the  word  to  break  ranks,  he 
found  himself  the  centre  of  a  group  including  not  only 
his  captain  but  the  colonel  of  the  regiment.  He  could 
not  quite  make  out  the  expressions  on  their  faces,  but 
he  surmised  that  they  were  wondering  how  any  man 
born  under  the  flag  of  the  Grays  could  be  such  a  coward 
as  he  was.  Probably  he  would  be  shot  at  sunrise. 

"How  did  it  happen?"  Fracasse  asked. 

His  tone  was  very  pleasant,  but  Peterkin  felt  that 
this  was  only  the  calmness  of  a  judge  hearing  the  evi 
dence  of  a  culprit.  Punishment  would  be,  accordingly, 
the  more  drastic.  He  was  too  scared  to  tell  the  truth. 
He  spoke  softly,  with  the  mealy  tongue  of  a  valet  father 
who  never  explained  why  the  wine  was  low  in  the  de 
canter  by  any  reference  to  a  weakness  of  his  own  palate. 

"I  didn't  hear  the  whistle  to  fall  back,"  he  said,  "so 
I  stayed." 

"Didn't  hear  the  whistle!"  exclaimed  the  captain. 
He  looked  at  the  colonel  and  the  colonel  looked  at  him. 
The  colonel  stroked  his  mustache  as  if  it  were  a  nice 
mustache.  "There  wasn't  any  whistle,"  said  Fracasse 
with  a  wry  grin. 

"Yes,  my  boy;  and  then?"  asked  the  colonel,  who 
had  never  before  called  any  private  in  his  regiment  "my 
boy." 

A  bright  light  broke  on  Peterkin.  Inherited  instinct 
did  not  permit  him  to  show  much  emotion  on  his  face, 
and  he  had,  too,  an  inherited  gift  of  invention.  He 
rubbed  his  rifle  stock  with  his  palm  and  bowed  much  in 


220  THE  LAST  SHOT 

the  fashion  of  the  parent  washing  his  hands  in  grati 
tude  for  a  compliment. 

"And  I  didn't  want  to  run,"  he  continued.  "I 
wanted  to  take  that  hill.  That  was  what  we  were  told 
to  do,  wasn't  it,  sir?" 

"Yes,  yes!"  said  the  colonel.     "Go  on!" 

The  light  grew  brighter,  showing  Peterkin's  imagina 
tion  the  way  to  higher  flights. 

"I  jumped  quick  into  the  crater,  knowing  that  if  I 
jumped  quick  I  would  not  be  hit,"  he  proceeded,  his 
thin  voice  accentuating  his  deferential  modesty.  "My! 
but  the  bullets  were  thick,  going  both  ways!  But  I 
remembered  the  lectures  to  recruits  said  that  it  took  a 
thousand  to  kill  a  man.  I  found  that  I  had  cover  from 
the  bullets  from  our  side  and  some  cover  from  their 
side.  I  could  not  lie  there  doing  nothing,  I  decided, 
after  I  had  munched  biscuits  for  a  while— 

"Coolly  munching  biscuits!"  exclaimed  the  colonel. 

"Yes,  sir;  so  I  began  firing  every  time  I  had  a  chance 
and  I  picked  off  a  number,  I  think,  sir." 

"My  boy,"  said  the  colonel,  putting  his  hand  on  Peter- 
kin's  shoulder,  "I  am  going  to  recommend  you  for  the 
bronze  cross." 

The  bronze  cross — desired  of  generals  and  privates— 
for  Peterkin,  when  Pilzer  had  been  so  confident  that  he 
should  win  the  first  that  came  to  the  i28th  now  that 
Eugene  Aronson  was  dead! 

"I— I—"  stammered  Peterkin. 

"And  so  modest  about  it!"  added  the  colonel.  "Re 
membered  the  lectures  to  recruits  and  acted  on  them 
faithfully!" 

The  old  spirit  of  the  nation  was  not  dead.  Here  it 
was  reappearing  in  a  valet's  son,  as  it  was  bound  to 
reappear  in  all  classes!  Yes,  Peterkin  had  supplied  the 
one  shining  incident  of  the  costly  day  to  the  colonel, 
who  found  himself  without  his  headquarters  for  the 
night  at  the  Galland  house  as  planned,  waiting  for 
orders  on  this  confounded  little  knoll.  He  was  wonder- 


THE  MAKING  OF  A  HERO  221 

ing  if  his  regiment  would  be  put  in  reserve  and  given  a 
rest  on  the  morrow,  when  an  officer  of  the  brigade  staff 
brought  instructions: 

"The  batteries  are  going  to  emplace  here  for  your 
support  in  the  morning.  You  will  move  as  soon  as 
your  men  have  eaten  and  occupy  positions  6-31  to 
B-35.  That  gives  you  a  narrow  front  for  one  battalion, 
with  two  battalions  in  reserve  to  drive  home  your  at 
tack.  The  chief  of  staff  himself  desires  that  we  take 
the  Galland  house  before  noon.  The  enemy  must  not 
have  the  encouragement  of  any  successes." 

"So  easy  for  Westerling  to  say,"  thought  the  colonel; 
while  aloud  he  acknowledged  the  message  with  proper 
spirit. 

Before  the  order  to  move  was  given  the  news  of  it 
passed  from  lip  to  lip  among  the  men  in  tired  whispers. 
Since  dawn  they  had  lived  through  the  impressions  of  a 
whole  war,  and  they  had  won.  With  victory  they  had 
not  thought  of  the  future,  only  of  their  hunger.  After 
the  nightmare  of  the  charge,  after  hearing  death  whisper 
ing  for  hours  intimately  in  their  ears,  they  were  too 
weary  and  too  far  thrown  out  of  the  adjustments  of  any 
natural  habits  of  thought  and  feeling  to  realize  the  horror 
of  eating  their  dinners  in  the  company  of  the  dead. 
Now  they  were  to  go  through  another  hell,  but  many  of 
them  in  their  exhaustion  were  chiefly  concerned  as  to 
whether  or  not  they  should  get  any  sleep  that  night. 

Peterkin  could  hear  his  heart  thumping  and  feel 
chills  running  down  his  spine.  How  should  he  ever 
live  up  to  a  bronze  cross — the  precious  cross  given  for 
valor  alone,  which  marked  him  as  heroic  for  life — when 
all  he  wanted  to  do  was  to  crawl  away  to  some  quiet, 
safe  place  and  munch  more  biscuits?  He  had  once  been 
a  buttons  who  looked  down  on  scullery  boys,  but  how 
gladly  would  he  be  a  scullery  boy  forever  if  he  could 
escape  to  the  rear  where  he  would  hear  no  more  bullets! 

His  conscience  smote  him;  he  wanted  a  confessor. 
He  had  an  impulse  to  tell  the  whole  truth  to  Hugo 


222  THE  LAST  SHOT 

Mallin,  for  Hugo  was  the  one  man  in  the  company  who 
would  sympathetically  understand  the  situation.  Yet 
he  did  not  find  the  words,  because  he  was  rather  pleased 
with  the  reclame  of  being  a  hero,  which  was  an  entirely 
new  experience  in  a  family  that  had  been  for  genera 
tions  in  service. 

Hugo  Mallin  had  fired  when  the  others  fired ;  advanced 
when  the  others  advanced.  He  had  done  his  mechanical 
part  in  a  way  that  had  not  excited  Fracasse's  further 
acute  displeasure,  and  he  had  no  sense  of  physical 
fatigue,  only  of  mental  depression,  of  the  elemental 
things  that  he  had  seen  and  felt  this  day  in  a  whirling 
pressure  on  his  brain. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  all  his  comrades  had  changed. 
They  could  never  be  the  same  as  before  they  had  set 
out  to  kill  another  lot  of  men  on  the  crest  of  the  knoll. 
He  could  not  keep  a  comparison  out  of  mind:  One  of 
the  dead  Browns,  lying  in  almost  the  same  position, 
looked  enough  like  the  manufacturer's  son  to  be  his 
brother.  He  pictured  Eugene  Aronson's  parents  re 
ceiving  the  news  of  his  death — the  mother  weeping,  the 
father  staring  stonily.  And  he  saw  many  mothers 
weeping  and  many  fathers  staring  stonily. 


XXV 

THE  TERRIBLE  NIGHT 

THE  satire  of  war  makes  the  valet's  son  a  hero;  the 
chance  of  war  kills  the  manufacturer's  son  and  lets  the 
day-laborer's  son  live;  the  sport  of  war  gives  the  latent 
forces  of  a  Stransky  full  play;  the  mercy  of  war  grants 
Grandfather  Fragini  a  happy  death;  the  glory  of  war 
brings  Dellarme  quick  promotion;  the  glamour  and  the 
spectacular  folly  of  war  turn  the  bolts  of  the  lightnings 
which  man  has  mastered  against  man.  Perhaps  the 
savage  who  learned  that  he  could  start  a  flame  by 
rubbing  two  dry  sticks  together  may  have  set  fire  to 
the  virgin  forest  and  wild  grass  in  order  to  destroy  an 
enemy — and  naturally  with  disastrous  results  to  himself 
if  he  mistook  the  direction  of  the  wind. 

Marta  Galland's  thoughts  at  dusk  when  she  returned 
up  the  steps  to  the  house  were  much  the  same  as  Hugo 
Mallin's  after  Fracasse  had  taken  the  knoll.  While  he 
had  felt  the  hot  whirlwind  of  war  in  his  face,  she  had 
witnessed  the  wreckage  that  it  left.  She  also  was  see 
ing  fathers  staring  and  mothers  weeping.  Her  experi 
ence  with  the  wounded  drawing  deep  on  the  wells  of 
sympathy,  heightened  her  loathing  of  war  and  of  all 
who  planned  and  ordered  it  and  led  its  legions.  A 
Stransky  fighting  would  have  been  repulsive  to  her,  but 
a  Stransky  trying  to  save  a  life  was  noble. 

Except  for  the  few  minutes  when  she  had  gone  out 
on  the  veranda  and  had  seen  Stransky  bringing  in  the 
lifeless  body  of  Grandfather  Fragini,  she  had  been  en 
gaged  since  dark  in  completing  the  work  of  moving 
valuable  articles  from  the  front  to  the  rear  rooms  of 

223 


224  THE  LAST  SHOT 

the  house,  which  had  been  begun  early  in  the  day  by 
Minna  and  the  coachman. 

Shortly  after  Stransky  had  finished  his  meal  Minna 
came  to  say  that  Major  Dellarme  wished  to  speak  to 
Miss  Galland.  Dellarme  a  major!  This  was  his  re 
ward  for  his  part  in  filling  the  ambulances  with  groans! 
In  the  days  when  he  was  at  the  La  Tir  garrison  he  had 
been  a  frequent  caller.  Now,  in  the  perversity  of  her  rea 
soning,  out  of  the  chaos  of  the  tangent  odds  of  her  im 
pressions  since  she  had  gone  to  hold  the  session  of  her 
school  that  morning,  she  thought  of  him  as  peculiarly 
one  who  gave  to  the  profession  of  arms  the  attraction 
that  had  made  it  the  vocation  of  the  aristocrat.  Wait 
ing  for  her  in  the  dismantled  dining-room,  despite  all 
that  he  had  passed  through,  his  greeting  had  the  diffident, 
boyish  manner  of  her  recollection ;  and  despite  a  night  on 
the  ground  his  brown  uniform  was  without  creases, 
giving  him  a  well-groomed,  even  debonair,  appearance. 

"I  scarcely  thought  that  we  should  ever  meet  under 
these  conditions,"  he  said  slightly  constrained,  a  touch 
of  color  in  his  cheeks. 

She  had  no  excuse  for  her  reply  unless,  in  truth,  she 
were  in  training  for  the  town  scold.  But  he  typified 
an  idea.  He  gave  to  war  the  aspect  of  refinement. 

"If  you  did  not  expect  it,  why  did  you  enter  the 
army?"  she  asked. 

He  saw  that  she  was  not  quite  herself.  The  strain  of 
the  day  had  unnerved  her.  Yet  he  answered  her  boot 
less  question  with  simple  directness. 

"I  liked  the  idea  of  being  a  soldier.  I  was  reared  in 
the  atmosphere  of  the  army,  and  I  hoped  that  I  might 
do  my  duty  if  war  came." 

Perhaps  this  was  point  one  for  him.  Marta  shrugged 
her  shoulders. 

"I  might  have  guessed  beforehand  what  you  would 
say,"  she  replied.  "You  sent  for  me?" 

"Hardly  that,  please.  I  asked  if  I  might  see  you. 
The  captain  of  engineers  tells  me  that  you  insist  on 


THE  TERRIBLE  NIGHT  225 

staying  and  I  came  to  beg  you  to  keep  in  the  back  of 
the  house.  You  will  be  safe  there.  Any  shell  that  may 
enter  will  explode  in  the  front  rooms  and  the  fragments 
will  not  go  through  the  second  wall." 

"Yes,  we  understand  that.  We  have  already  re 
moved  our  heirlooms,"  she  replied  indifferently. 

The  fatalism  of  her  attitude  and  his  alarm  lest  she 
had  gone  a  little  out  of  her  head  aroused  all  the  innate 
horror  of  a  man  at  the  thought  of  a  woman  under  fire. 
He  broke  out  desperately: 

"Miss  Galland,  this  is  no  place  for  you!  You  do  not 
realize— 

He  had  made  the  same  mistake  as  the  captain  of  en 
gineers — touched  a  spot  of  irritation  as  raw  as  it  had 
been  in  the  morning. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  stay  here?  Why  shouldn't  every 
wife  and  mother  be  here  in  the  fire  zone?  You  soldiers 
die — it  is  very  easy  to  die — and  leave  us  to  suffer. 
You  destroy  and  leave  us  to  build  up.  You  go  on  a 
debauch  of  killing  and  come  home  to  the  women  to 
nurse  you.  Why  make  us  suffer  the  consequences  with 
out  sharing  the  glory  of  the  deed?" 

Such  reasoning  was  not  in  the  province  of  his  training. 
He  feared  that  she  was  about  to  become  hysterical. 

"Really,  Miss  Galland,  I — women  and  children — 
I — "  he  was  stammering. 

"Better  kill  the  children  young  than  go  to  the  expense 
of  bringing  them  up  before  they  are  killed!"  she  went 
on,  not  hysterically,  unless  frozen  intensity  is  hysteria. 
"Children  clinging  to  your  knees  might  stop  you,  but 
I  suppose  you  would  have  a  police  force  to  tear  the 
children  away  rather  than  miss  the  masculine  privilege 
of  murder." 

"Miss  Galland,  you  are  overwrought.     I " 

She  interrupted  him  with  half-breathed  laughter. 

" Don't  I  look  it— hysterical? "  she  exclaimed.  "How 
awkward  for  you  if  I  should  fall  on  the  floor  and  kick 
and  scream!" 


226  THE  LAST  SHOT 

With  a  peculiar  uplifting  of  the  brows  which  spoke  a 
brittle  humor,  she  looked  at  the  floor  as  if  selecting  a 
place  for  the  performance. 

"That  is  not  your  way,"  he  managed  to  say.  He 
was  quite  adrift  in  confusion  at  the  recollection  of 
quotations  he  had  heard  about  woman's  subtleties  and 
inconsistencies  and  her  charm.  Resorting  to  the  last 
weapon  in  his  armory — which  the  captain  of  engineers 
had  already  used — his  attitude  changed  to  a  soldierly 
sternness.  "Miss  Galland,  I  feel  that  it  is  my  duty,  as 
long  as  you  are  going  to  stay,  to  make  sure  that 

She  killed  the  sentence  on  his  lips  with  a  gleam  of 
mockery  from  her  eyes.  He  understood  that  she  had 
again  anticipated  what  he  was  going  to  say. 

"There  are  times  when  you  must  be  firm  with  a 
woman,  aren't  there?  And  the  time  has  come  for  you 
to  be  firm!"  The  color  in  his  cheeks  deepened.  He 
knew  what  to  do  with  his  men  on  the  knoll,  but  not 
what  to  do  in  the  present  situation.  "This  is  our 
home;  our  home  is  our  country.  Here  we  remain;  but, 
naturally,  we  don't  propose  to  stick  our  heads  out  of 
the  windows  in  a  shower  of  shrapnel  bullets,"  she  con 
tinued.  "Even  your  soldiers  are  not  so  zealous  for 
death  but  they  fight  behind  sand-bags.  They  are  not 
like  Mohammedan  fatalists  who  so  love  to  die  for  their 
illusions  that  they  bare  their  breasts  to  bullets.  We 
have  already  arranged  sleeping-quarters  in  the  rear. 
Good  night!" 

She  held  out  her  hand  with  a  smile  of  conventional 
pleasantry.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  sound  of  firing, 
which  still  continued,  and  for  the  walls  denuded  of 
pictures,  they  might  have  been  parting  at  the  head  of 
the  stairs  at  a  house-party.  She  stopped  half-way  up 
in  an  impulse  to  call  back  happily: 

"You  see,  masculine  firmness  did  cahn  feminine 
hysteria!" 

"Oh,  Miss  Galland!"  he  exclaimed.  "Miss  Galland, 
you  are  beyond  me!" 


THE  TERRIBLE  NIGHT  227 

"What  a  pose!  How  foolish  to  break  out  in  that 
way!"  she  thought  angrily,  as  she  hastened  up  the  rest 
of  the  flight  and  along  the  corridor.  "To  him  of  all 
men!  A  pattern-plate  of  an  officer,  who  never  has  had 
anything  but  a  military  thought!  But  everything  is 
pose!  Everything  is  abnormal!  And  sleep?  Sleep  is 
a  pose,  too.  I  feel  as  if  my  eyes  would  remain  open  for 
ever.  Oh,  I  wish  they  would  begin  the  fighting  and 
tear  the  house  to  pieces  if  they  are  going  to !  I  wish 

She  was  at  the  door  of  her  mother's  room,  which  was 
like  an  antique  shop.  Old  plates  lay  on  top  of  old  tables, 
with  vases  on  the  floor  under  the  tables.  Surrounded 
by  her  treasures,  Mrs.  Galland  awaited  the  attack;  not 
as  a  soldier  awaits  it,  but  as  that  venerable  Roman 
senator  of  the  story  faced  the  barbarous  Gauls — neither 
disputing  the  power  of  their  spears  nor  yielding  the  self- 
respect  of  his  own  mind  and  soul.  She  had  lain  down  in 
her  wrapper  for  the  night,  and  the  light  from  a  single 
candle — she  still  favored  candles — revealed  her  features 
calm  and  philosophical  among  the  pillows.  Yet  the 
magic  of  war,  reaching  deep  into  hidden  emotions,  had 
her  also  under  its  spell.  Her  voice  was  at  once  more 
tender  and  vital. 

"Marta,  I  see  that  you  are  all  on  wires!" 

"Yes;  jangling  wires,  every  one,  jangling  every  second 
out  of  tune,"  Marta  acquiesced. 

"Marta,  my  father" — her  father  had  been  a  premier 
of  the  Browns — "always  said  that  you  may  enjoy  the 
luxury  of  fussing  over  little  things,  for  they  don't  count 
much  one  way  or  another;  but  about  big  things  you  must 
never  fuss  or  you  will  not  be  worthy  of  big  things. 
Marta,  you  cannot  stop  a  railroad  train  with  your  hands. 
This  is  not  the  first  war  on  earth  and  we  are  not  the 
first  women  who  ever  thought  that  war  was  wrong. 
Each  of  us  has  his  work  to  do  and  you  will  have  yours. 
It  does  no  good  to  tire  yourself  out  and  fly  to  pieces, 
even  if  you  do  know  so  much  and  have  been  around  the 
world." 


228  THE  LAST  SHOT 

She  smiled  as  a  woman  of  sixty,  who  has  a  secret 
heart-break  that  she  had  never  given  her  husband  a 
son,  may  smile  at  a  daughter  who  is  both  son  and 
daughter  to  her,  and  her  plump  hand,  all  curves  like 
her  plump  face  and  her  plump  body,  spread  open  in 
appeal. 

Marta,  who,  in  the  breeding  of  her  generation,  felt 
sentiment  as  more  or  less  of  a  lure  from  logic,  dropped 
beside  the  bed  in  a  sudden  burst  of  sentiment  and 
gathered  the  plump  hand  in  hers  and  kissed  it. 

" Mother,  you  are  wonderful!"  she  said.  "Mother, 
you  are  great!" 

"Tush,  Marta!"  said  Mrs.  Galland.  "You  shouldn't 
say  that.  Your  grandfather  was  great — a  very  great 
man.  He  never  quite  got  his  deserts;  no  good  man  does 
in  politics." 

"You  are  better  than  great,"  said  Marta.  "You 
soothe;  you  help;  you  have — what  shall  I  call  it? — the 
wisdom  of  mothers  1  Minna  has  it,  too."  She  ran  a 
tattoo  of  kisses  along  the  velvety  skin  of  Mrs.  Galland's 
arm. 

Mrs.  Galland  was  blushing,  and  out  of  the  depths  of 
her  eyes  bubbled  a  little  fountain  of  stars. 

"Marta,  you  have  kissed  me  often  before,"  she  said, 
"but  you  have  been  a  little  patronizing  from  your  hill 
top  of  youth  and  knowledge.  Sometimes  you  have 
looked  to  me  lonely  up  there  on  your  hilltop  and  I  know 
that  I  have  been  lonely  sometimes  in  my  valley  of  the 
years  where  knees  are  not  good  at  climbing  hills." 

"It  was  not  my  intention,"  Marta  said  rather  miser 
ably. 

"No,  it  is  a  businesslike  age,"  answered  Mrs.  Galland. 

"I — you  mean  I  was  too  detached?  I  was  not 
human?" 

"You  are  now.  You  make  me  very  happy,"  her 
mother  replied.  "But  you  must  sleep,"  she  insisted. 

After  a  time,  her  ear  becoming  as  accustomed  to  the 
firing  as  a  city  dweller's  to  the  distant  roar  of  city  traffic, 


THE  TERRIBLE  NIGHT  229 

Mrs.  Galland  slept.  But  Marta  could  not  follow  her 
advice.  If,  transiently  at  least,  she  had  found  some 
thing  of  the  peace  of  the  confessional,  the  vigor  of  youth 
was  in  her  arteries;  and  youth  cannot  help  remaining 
awake  under  some  conditions.  She  tiptoed  across  the 
hall  into  her  own  room  and  seated  herself  by  the  window, 
which  had  often  spread  the  broadening  vista  of  landscape 
with  its  lessening  detail  before  her  eyes. 

On  other  nights  she  had  looked  out  into  opaqueness 
with  the  drum-beat  of  rain  on  the  roof;  into  the  faint 
starlight  when  there  was  only  the  vagueness  of  heights 
and  levels;  into  the  harvest  moonlight  with  its  spectral 
unreality.  Now  the  symbol  of  what  the  ear  had  heard 
the  eye  saw:  war,  working  in  tones  of  the  landscape  by 
day  with  smokeless  powder;  war,  revealed  by  its  tongues 
of  flame  at  night.  Ugly  bursts  of  fire  from  the  higher 
hills  spread  to  the  heavens  like  an  aurora  borealis  and 
broke  their  messengers  in  sheets  of  flame  over  the  lower 
hills — the  batteries  of  the  Browns  sprinkling  death 
about  the  heads  of  the  gunners  of  the  Grays  emplacing 
their  batteries.  Staccato  flashes  from  a  single  point 
counted  so  many  bullets  from  an  automatic,  which,  di 
rected  by  the  beams  of  the  search-lights,  found  their 
targets  in  sections  of  advancing  infantry.  Hill  crests, 
set  off  with  flashes  running  back  and  forth,  demarked 
infantry  lines  of  the  Browns  assisting  the  automatics. 

There  were  lulls  between  the  crashes  of  the  small 
arms  and  the  heavy,  throaty  speech  of  the  guns;  lulls 
that  seemed  to  say  that  both  sides  had  paused  for  a 
breathing  spell;  lulls  that  allowed  the  battle  in  the  dis 
tance  to  be  heard  in  its  pervasive  undertone.  In  one 
of  them,  when  even  the  undertone  had  ceased  for  a  few 
seconds,  Marta  caught  faintly  the  groans  of  a  wounded 
man — one  of  the  crew  of  a  Gray  dirigible  burned  by  an 
explosion  and  brought  in  his  agony  softly  to  earth  by  a 
billowing  piece  of  envelope  which  acted  as  a  parachute. 

Fighting  proceeded  in  La  Tir  in  stages  of  ferocity 
and  blank  silence.  The  upper  part  of  the  town,  which 


23o  THE  LAST  SHOT 

the  Browns  still  held,  was  in  darkness;  the  lower  part, 
where  the  Grays  were,  was  illuminated. 

" Another  one  of  Lanny's  plans!"  thought  Marta. 
"He  would  have  them  work  in  the  light,  while  we  fire 
out  of  obscurity!" 

Soon  all  the  town  was  in  darkness,  for  the  Grays  had 
cut  the  wire  in  the  main  conduit  shortly  after  she  had 
heard  the  groans  of  the  wounded  man.  There  the  auto 
matics  broke  out  in  a  mad  storm,  voicing  their  feelings 
at  getting  a  company  in  close  order  in  a  street  for  the 
space  of  a  minute,  before  those  who  escaped  could 
plaster  themselves  against  doorways  or  find  cover  in 
alleys.  Then  silence  from  the  automatics  and  a  cheer 
from  the  Browns  that  rasped  out  its  triumph  like  the 
rubbing  together  of  steel  files. 

From  the  line  of  defence,  that  included  the  first  ter 
race  of  the  Galland  grounds  as  the  angle  of  a  redoubt, 
not  a  shot,  not  a  sound;  silence  on  the  part  of  officers 
and  men  as  profound  as  Mrs.  Galland's  slumber,  while 
one  of  the  Browns'  search-lights,  like  some  great  witch's 
slow-turning  eye  in  a  narrow  radius,  covered  the  lower 
terraces  and  the  road. 

Marta  gave  intermittent  glances  at  the  garden;  the 
glances  of  a  guardian.  She  happened  to  be  looking  in 
that  direction  when  figures  sprang  across  the  road, 
crouching,  running  with  the  short,  quick  steps  of  no 
body  movement  accompanying  that  of  the  legs.  The 
search-light  caught  them  in  merciless  silhouette  and  the 
automatic  and  the  rifles  from  behind  the  sand-bags  on 
the  first  terrace  let  go.  Some  of  the  figures  dropped 
and  lay  in  the  road  and  she  knew  that  she  had  seen  men 
hit  for  the  first  time.  Others,  she  thought,  got  safely 
to  the  cover  of  the  gutter  on  the  garden  side.  Of  those 
on  the  road,  some  were  still  and  some  she  saw  were 
moving  slowly  back  on  their  stomachs  to  safety.  Now 
the  search-light  laid  its  beam  steadily  on  the  road. 
Again  silence.  From  the  upper  terrace  came  a  great 
voice,  like  that  of  the  guns,  from  a  human  throat: 


THE  TERRIBLE  NIGHT  231 

"Why  didn't  we  level  those  terraces?  They'll  creep 
up  from  one  to  the  other!"  It  was  Stransky. 

In  answer  was  another  voice — Dellarme's. 

"Perhaps  there  wasn't  time  to  do  everything.  And 
if  this  position  is  taken  before  we  are  ready  to  go,  it 
will  not  be  from  that  side,  but  from  the  side  of  the 
town." 

"We're  making  them  pay  for  seeing  our  garden,  but, 
anyhow,  we  won't  let  them  pick  any  flowers,"  Stransky 
remarked  pungently. 

"If  they  get  as  far  as  the  first  terrace — well,  in  case 
of  a  crisis,  we  have  hand-grenades,"  Dellarme  added  in 
explanation.  "But,  God  knows,  I  hope  we  shall  not 
have  to  use  them." 

After  an  interval,  more  figures  made  a  rush  across  the 
road.  They,  too,  in  Stransky's  words,  paid  a  price 
for  seeing  the  garden.  But  the  flashes  from  the  rifles 
and  the  automatic  provided  a  target  for  a  Gray  bat 
tery.  The  blue  spark  that  flies  from  an  overhead 
trolley  or  a  third  rail,  multiplied  a  hundredfold,  broke  in 
Marta's  face.  It  was  dazzling,  blinding  as  a  bolt  of 
lightning  a  few  feet  distant,  with  the  thunder  crash  at 
the  same  second,  followed  by  the  thrashing  hum  of 
bullets  and  fragments  against  the  side  of  the  house. 

"I  knew  that  this  must  come!"  something  within  her 
said.  If  she  had  not  been  prepared  for  it  by  the  events 
of  the  last  twelve  hours  she  would  have  jumped  to  her 
feet  with  an  exclamation  of  natural  shock  and  horror. 
As  it  was,  she  felt  a  convulsive,  nervous  thrill  without 
rising  from  her  seat.  A  pause.  The  next  shell  burst 
in  line  with  the  first,  out  by  the  linden-trees;  a  third 
above  the  veranda. 

"We've  got  that  range,  all  right!"  thought  the  Gray 
battery  commander,  who  had  judged  the  distance  by 
the  staff  map.  This  was  all  he  wanted  to  know  for  the 
present.  He  would  let  loose  at  the  proper  time  to  sup 
port  the  infantry  attack,  when  there  were  enough  drib 
lets  across  the  road  to  make  a  charge.  The  driblets 


232  THE  LAST  SHOT 

kept  en  coining,  and,  one  by  one,  the  number  of  dead  on 
the  road  was  augmented. 

Marta  was  diverted  from  this  process  of  killing  by 
piecemeal  by  a  more  theatric  spectacle.  A  brigade  com 
mander  of  the  Grays  had  ticked  an  order  over  the  wires 
and  it  had  gone  from  battery  to  battery.  Not  only  many 
field-guns,  which  are  the  terriers  of  the  artillery,  but 
some  guns  of  siege  calibre,  the  mastiffs,  in  a  sudden  out 
burst  started  a  havoc  of  tumbling  walls  and  cornices 
in  the  upper  part  of  the  town. 

Then  an  explosion  greater  than  any  from  the  shells 
shot  a  hemisphere  of  light  heavenward,  revealing  a 
shadowy  body  flying  overhead,  and  an  instant  later  the 
heavens  were  illuminated  by  a  vast  circle  of  flame  as 
the  dirigible  that  had  dropped  the  dynamite  received 
its  death-blow.  But  already  the  Brown  infantry  was 
withdrawing  from  the  town,  destroying  buildings  that 
would  give  cover  for  the  attack  in  the  morning  as  they 
went.  Two  or  three  hours  after  midnight  fell  a  silence 
which  was  to  last  until  dawn.  The  combatants  rested 
on  their  arms,  Browns  saying  to  Grays,  "We  shall  be 
ready  for  the  morrow!"  and  Grays  replying:  "So  shall 
we!" 

Marta,  at  her  window,  her  eyes  following  the  move 
ments  of  the  display,  now  here,  now  there,  found  herself 
thinking  of  many  things,  as  in  the  intermissions  between 
the  acts  of  a  drama.  She  wondered  if  the  groaning, 
wounded  man  were  crying  for  water  or  if  he  were  wish 
ing  that  some  one  at  home  were  near  him.  She  thought 
of  her  talk  with  Lanstron  over  the  telephone  and  how 
mad  and  feminine  and  feeble  it  must  have  sounded  to  a 
mind  working  in  the  inexorable  processes  of  the  clash 
of  millions  of  men.  She  saw  his  left  hand  twitching  in 
his  pocket,  his  right  hand  gripping  it  to  hold  it  still,  on 
that  afternoon  when,  for  the  first  time,  she  had  under 
stood  his  injury  in  the  aeroplane  accident  as  the  talis 
man  of  his  feelings — his  controlled  feelings!  Always  his 
controlled  feelings! 


THE  TERRIBLE  NIGHT  233 

She  saw  Feller  leaning  against  the  moist  wall  of  the 
dank  tunnel,  suffering  as  it  had  never  seemed  to  her 
that  man  could  suffer,  his  agony  an  irresistible  plea. 
She  saw  Westerling,  so  conscious  of  his  strength,  direct 
ing  his  chessmen  in  a  death  struggle  against  Partow. 
And  he  was  coming  to  this  house  as  his  headquarters 
when  the  final  test  of  the  strength  of  the  Titans  was 
made. 

She  hoped  that  her  mother  was  still  sleeping;  and  she 
had  seconds  when  she  was  startled  by  her  own  calmness. 
Again,  the  faces  of  the  children  in  her  school  were  as 
clear  as  in  life.  She  breathed  her  gratitude  that  the 
procession  in  which  they  moved  to  the  rear  was  hours 
ago  out  of  the  theatre  of  danger.  In  the  simplicity  of 
big  things,  her  duty  was  to  teach  them,  a  future  genera 
tion,  no  less  than  Feller's  duty  was  to  the  pursuing 
shadow  of  his  conscience.  She  should  see  war,  alive, 
naked,  bloody,  and  she  would  tell  her  children  what  she 
had  seen  as  a  warning. 

Silence,  except  an  occasional  rifle-shot — silence  and  the 
darkness  before  dawn  which  would,  she  knew,  concen 
trate  the  lightnings  around  the  house.  She  glanced 
into  her  mother's  room  and  marvelled  as  at  a  miracle 
to  find  her  sleeping.  Then  she  stole  down-stairs  and 
opened  the  outer  door  of  the  dining-room.  A  step  or 
two  brought  her  to  the  edge  of  the  veranda.  There  she 
paused  and  leaned  against  one  of  the  stone  pillars. 
Dellarme  himself  was  in  a  half-reclining  position,  his 
back  to  a  tree.  He  seemed  to  be  nodding.  Except,  for 
a  few  on  watch  over  the  sand-bags,  his  men  were 
stretched  on  the  earth,  moving  restlessly  at  intervals, 
either  in  an  effort  to  sleep  or  waking  suddenly  after  a 
spell  of  harassed  unconsciousness. 


XXVI 

FELLER  IS  TEMPTED 

WITH  the  first  sign  of  dawn  there  was  a  movement  of 
shadowy  forms  taking  position  in  answer  to  low-spoken 
commands.  The  search-light  yielded  its  vigil  to  the 
wide-spread  beam  out  of  the  east,  and  the  detail  of  the 
setting  where  Marta  was  to  watch  the  play  of  one  of 
man's  passions,  which  he  dares  not  permit  the  tender 
flesh  of  woman  to  share,  grew  distinct.  Bayonets  were 
fixed  on  the  rifles  that  lay  along  the  parapet  of  sand 
bags  in  front  of  the  row  of  brown  shoulders.  Back  of 
them  in  the  yard  was  a  section  of  infantry  in  reserve, 
also  with  bayonets  fixed,  ready  to  fill  the  place  of  any 
who  fell  out  of  line,  a  doctor  and  stretchers  to  care  for 
the  wounded,  and  a  detachment  of  engineers  to  mend 
any  breaches  made  in  the  breastwork  by  shell  fire. 

The  gunner  ot  the  automatic  sighted  his  barrel, 
slightly  adjusted  its  elevation,  and  swung  it  back  and 
forth  to  make  sure  that  it  worked  smoothly,  while  his 
assistant  saw  that  the  fresh  belts  of  cartridges  which 
were  to  feed  it  were  within  easy  reach.  Dellarme, 
walking  behind  his  men,  cautioning  them  not  to  expose 
their  heads  and  at  the  same  time  to  fire  low,  had  his 
cheery  smile  in  excellent  working  order. 

"We  expect  great  things  of  you!"  this  smile  said  as 
he  bent  over  the  gunner  with  a  pat  on  the  shoulder. 

"I  understand!"  said  the  upward  glance  in  reply. 

Marta  could  not  deny  that  there  was  something  fine 
about  Dellarme's  smile  no  less  than  in  his  bearing  and 
his  delicately  chiselled  features.  It  had  the  assurance 
and  self-possession  of  a  surgeon  about  to  perform  a  crit- 

234 


FELLER  IS  TEMPTED  235 

ical  operation,  the  difference  being  that,  unlike  the  sur 
geon,  he  shared  in  the  risk,  which  was  for  the  purpose 
of  taking  vigorous  young  lives  rather  than  saving  lives 
enfeebled  by  disease.  Was  it  this  that  gave  to  war  its 
halo — this  offering  of  the  most  valuable  thing  man  pos 
sesses  to  sudden  destruction  that  made  war  heroic? 

But  where  was  the  romance  of  the  last  war  forty 
years  ago?  Where  the  glad  songs  going  into  battle? 
The  glitter  of  buttons  and  the  pomp  of  showy  uniforms? 
The  general's  staff  watching  the  course  of  the  action  by 
the  billows  of  black  smoke?  Gone  where  the  railroad 
sent  the  stage-coach,  electricity  sent  the  candle  and 
horse-drawn  street-cars,  serum  sent  diphtheria,  the  knife 
sent  the  appendix,  and  rifled  cannon  and  explosive  shells 
sent  the  wooden  walls  of  old  ships  of  the  line. 

It  occurred  to  none  of  the  actors,  and  to  Marta  alone, 
in  the  tight,  foreboding  silence,  to  look  aloft.  There 
was  a  serene  blue  sky.  The  birds  were  tuning  up  for 
their  morning  songs  when  she  heard  the  dull  echo  of 
distant  guns,  soon  to  be  submerged  in  other  thunders  at 
nearer  points  along  the  frontier.  With  every  faculty  an 
alert  wire  strung  in  suspense,  she  was  instantly  aware  of 
the  appearance  of  a  figure  whose  lack  of  uniform  made 
it  conspicuous  on  that  stage. 

In  straw  hat  and  blue  blouse,  shuffling  with  his  old 
man's  walk,  Feller  came  along  the  path  from  the  gate. 
He  was  in  retreat  from  the  enticing  picture  of  the  regi 
ment  of  field-guns  in  front  of  the  castle  that  was  ready 
for  action.  As  the  infantry  had  never  interested  him, 
he  would  be  safe  from  temptation  in  the  yard.  He 
stopped  back  of  the  engineers,  his  glance  roving  down  the 
line  of  brown  shoulders  until  it  rested  on  the  automatic. 
This  also  was  a  gun,  though  it  fired  only  bullets.  His 
fingers  began  beating  a  tattoo  on  his  trousers'  seam;  a 
hungry  brilliance  shone  in  his  eyes.  He  took  four  or 
five  steps  forward  as  if  drawn  by  an  overpowering  fas 
cination. 

"This  is  no  place  for  you!"  said  one  of  the  engineers. 


236  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"No,  and  don't  waste  any  time,  either,  old  man!" 
said  another.  "Back  to  your  bulbs !" 

Feller  did  not  even  hear  them.  For  the  moment  he 
was  actually  deaf. 

"Fire!"  said  Dellarme's  whistle.  "Thur-r-r!"  went 
the  automatic  in  soulless,  mechanical  repetition,  its 
tape  spinning  through  the  cylinder,  while  the  rifles 
spoke  with  the  human  irregularity  of  steel-tipped  fingers 
pounding  at  random  on  a  drumhead.  All  along  the 
line  facing  La  Tir  the  volume  of  fire  spread  until  it  was 
like  the  concert  of  a  mighty  loom. 

Marta  could  see  nothing  of  the  enemy,  but  she  guessed 
that  he  was  making  a  rush  from  the  second  to  the  third 
terrace  and  from  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  The  en 
gineer's  repeated  warning 'unheard  above  the  din,  he 
touched  Feller  on  the  leg.  Feller  looked  around  with  a 
frown  of  querulous  abstraction  just  as  the  breaking  of  a 
storm  of  shell  fire  obscured  Marta's  vision  with  dust  and 
smoke.  She  felt  her  head  jerk  as  if  it  would  go  free  of 
her  neck  with  each  explosion,  until  she  reinforced  her 
nerves  with  the  memory  of  an  old  soldier's  warning  about 
the  folly  of  dodging  missiles  that  were  already  past  be 
fore  you  heard  them.  She  knew  that  she  was  perfectly 
safe  behind  the  pillar. 

The  Gray  batteries  having  tried  out  their  range  by  the 
flashes  of  the  automatic  the  previous  evening  were  making 
the  most  of  the  occasion.  "  Uk-ung-n-ng ! "  the  break 
ing  jackets  whipped  out  their  grists.  A  crash  on  the 
roof  brought  a  small  avalanche  of  slate  tumbling  down. 
A  concussion  in  the  dining-room  was  followed  by  the 
tinkling  of  falling  window-glass.  The  engineers  had 
work  immediately  when  two  of  the  infantrymen  and 
their  rifles  and  the  sand-bags  on  which  they  leaned 
were  hurled  together  in  a  heap  of  sand  and  torn  flesh. 
Other  bags  were  placed  in  the  breach;  other  men  sprang 
forward  and  began  firing.  The  reserves,  the  hospital- 
corps  men  and  the  engineers  hugged  the  breastwork  for 
cover.  The  leaves  clipped  from  the  trees  by  bullets 


FELLER  IS  TEMPTED  237 

were  blown  aside  with  the  hurricane  breaths  of  shrapnel 
bursts;  bullets  whistled  so  near  Marta  that  she  heard 
their  shrillness  above  every  other  sound.  She  was  amazed 
that  the  house  still  remained  standing — that  any  one  was 
alive.  But  she  had  a  glimpse  of  Dellarme  maintaining 
his  set  smile  and  another  of  Feller,  who  had  crept  up 
behind  the  automatic,  making  impatient  " come-on! 
come-on!  what-is-the-matter-with-you?"  gestures  in  the 
direction  of  the  batteries  in  front  of  the  castle. 

1 '  Thur-eesh — thur-eesh ! "  As  the  welcome  note  swept 
overhead  he  waved  his  hands  up  and  down  in  mad  rap 
ture  and  then  peeped  over  the  breastwork  to  ascertain 
if  the  practice  were  good.  The  Brown  batteries  had 
been  a  little  slow  in  coming  into  action,  but  they  had 
the  range  from  the  Gray  batteries'  flashes  the  previous 
night  and,  undisturbed  in  the  security  of  their  own 
flashes  screened  by  the  trees,  soon  broke  the  precision 
of  the  opposing  fire. 

Now  shells  coming  infrequently  fell  short  or  went 
wide.  The  air  cleared.  Marta  could  again  see  dis 
tinctly,  and  she  marvelled  that  the  brown  figures  were 
proceeding  with  their  knitting  as  if  nothing  had  hap 
pened.  She  could  not  resist  a  thrill  of  grim  admiration 
for  their  steadiness  or  an  appreciative  thrill  as  she  saw 
Feller  eagerly  peering  over  the  automatic  gunner's 
shoulder  to  watch  the  effect  of  his  fire.  Suddenly,  both 
the  rifles  and  the  automatic,  which  had  been  firing 
deliberately,  began  to  fire  with  desperate  rapidity.  It 
was  as  if  a  boxer,  sparring  slowly,  let  out  all  his  power 
in  a  rain  of  blows.  She  could  see  nothing  of  the  Grays, 
but  she  understood  that  they  were  making  a  rush. 

Then  a  chance  shell,  striking  at  the  one  point  which 
the  man  who  fired  it  six  thousand  yards  away  would  have 
chosen  as  his  bull's-eye,  obscured  Feller  and  the  auto 
matic  and  its  gunners  in  the  havoc  of  explosion.  Feller 
must  have  been  killed.  The  dust  settled;  she  saw 
Dellarme  making  frantic  gestures  as  he  looked  at  his 
men.  They  were  keeping  up  their  fusillade  with  un- 


238  THE  LAST  SHOT 

flinching  rapidity.  Through  the  breach  left  in  the 
breastwork  she  had  glimpses,  as  the  dust  was  finally 
dissipated,  of  gray  figures,  bayonets  fixed,  pressing  to 
gether  as  they  came  on  fiercely  toward  the  opening. 
The  Browns  let  go  the  full  blast  of  their  magazines. 
Had  that  chance  shell  turned  the  scales?  Would  the 
Grays  get  into  the  breastwork? 

All  Marta's  faculties  and  emotions  were  frozen  in  her 
stare  of  suspense  at  the  breach.  Her  heart  seemed 
straining  with  the  effort  of  the  living,  who  heard  nothing, 
thought  nothing,  in  the  crux  of  their  effort.  War's  own 
mesmerism  had  made  her  forget  Feller  and  everything 
except  the  gamble,  the  turn  of  the  card,  while  the  gray 
figures  kept  stumbling  on  over  their  fallen.  Then  her 
heart  leaped,  a  cry  in  a  gust  of  short  breaths  broke 
from  her  lips  as  the  Browns  let  go  a  rasping,  explo 
sive,  demoniacal  cheer.  The  first  attack  had  been 
checked ! 

After  triumph,  terror,  faintness,  and  a  closing  of  her 
eyes,  she  opened  them  to  see  Feller,  with  his  old  straw 
hat — brim  torn  and  crownless  now — still  on  his  head, 
rise  from  the  debris  and  shake  himself  like  a  dog  coming 
ashore  from  a  swim.  While  the  engineers  hastened  to 
repair  the  breach  he  assisted  Stransky,  who  had  also 
been  knocked  down  by  the  concussion,  to  lift  the  over 
turned  automatic  off  the  gunner.  The  doctor,  put 
ting  a  hand  on  the  gunner's  heart,  shook  his  head,  and 
two  hospital-corps  men  removed  the  body  to  make  room 
for  the  engineers. 

Dellarme  could  now  spare  attention  from  the  charge 
of  the  Gray  infantry  to  observe  the  results  of  the  shell 
fire.  With  the  gunner  dead,  he  looked  for  the  gunner's 
assistant,  who  lay  several  feet  distant.  As  Dellarme 
and  the  doctor  hastened  to  him  he  raised  himself  to  a 
sitting  posture  and  looked  around  in  dazed  inquiry. 
The  doctor  poured  a  cup  of  brandy  from  his  flask  and 
held  it  to  the  assistant's  lips,  whereon  he  blinked  and 
nodded  his  head  in  personal  confirmation  of  the  fact 


FELLER  IS  TEMPTED  239 

that  he  was  still  alive.  But  when  he  tried  to  raise  his 
right  arm  the  hand  would  not  join  in  the  movement. 
His  wrist  was  broken. 

For  once  Dellarme's  cheery  smile  deserted  him. 
There  was  no  one  left  to  man  the  automatic,  so  vital 
in  the  defence,  and  even  if  somebody  could  be  found  the 
gun  was  probably  out  of  commission.  As  he  started 
toward  it  his  smile,  already  summoned  back,  was  shot 
with  surprise  at  sight  of  the  gun  in  place  and  a  stranger 
in  blue  blouse,  white  hair  showing  through  a  crownless 
straw  hat,  trying  out  the  mechanism  with  knowing 
fingers.  Dellarme  stared.  Feller,  unconscious  of  every 
thing  but  the  gun,  righted  the  cartridge  band,  swung  the 
barrel  back  and  forth,  and  then  fired  a  shot. 

"You — you  seem  to  know  rapid-firers ! "  Dellarme 
exclaimed  in  blank  incomprehension. 

"Yes,  sir!"  Feller  raised  his  finger,  whether  in  salute 
as  a  soldier  or  as  a  gardener  touching  his  hat  it  was  hard 
to  say. 

"But  how — where?"  gasped  Dellarme. 

This  time  the  movement  of  the  finger  was  undoubtedly 
in  salute,  in  perfect,  swift,  military  salute,  with  head 
thrown  back  and  shoulders  stiff.  Feller  the  gardener 
was  dead  and  buried  without  ceremony. 

"Lanstron's  class,  school  for  officers,  sir.  Stood  one  in 
ballistics,  prize  medallist  control  of  gun-fire.  Yes,  sir,  I 
know  something  about  rapid-firers,"  Feller  replied,  and 
fired  a  few  more  shots.  "A  little  high,  a  little  low — 
right,  my  lady,  right!" 

Stransky  was  back  in  his  place  next  to  the  auto 
matic  and  firing  whenever  a  head  appeared.  He  rolled 
his  eyes  in  a  characteristic  squint  of  scrutiny  toward  the 
new  recruit. 

"Beats  spraying  rose-bushes  for  bugs,  eh,  old  man?" 
he  asked. 

"Yes,  a  lead  solution  is  best  for  gray  bugs!"  Feller 
remarked  pungently,  and  their  glances  meeting,  they  saw 
in  each  other's  eyes  the  joy  of  hell. 


24o  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"A  pair  of  anarchists!"  exclaimed  Stransky  grinning, 
and  tried  a  shot  for  another  head. 

As  if  in  answer  to  prayer,  a  gunner  had  come  out  of 
the  earth.  Sufficient  to  the  need  was  the  fact.  It  was 
not  for  Dellarme  to  ask  questions  of  a  prize-medallist 
graduate  of  the  school  for  officers  in  a  blue  blouse  and 
crownless  straw  hat.  His  expert  survey  assured  him 
that  before  another  rush  the  enemy  had  certain  prepa 
rations  to  make.  He  might  give  his  fighting  smile  a 
recess  and  permit  himself  a  few  minutes'  relaxation. 
Looking  around  to  ascertain  what  damage  had  been 
done  to  the  house  and  grounds,  he  became  aware  of 
Marta's  presence  for  the  first  time. 

"Miss  Galland,  you — you  weren't  there  during  the 
fighting?"  he  cried  as  he  ran  toward  her. 

"Yes,"  she  said  rather  faintly. 

"If  I  had  known  that  I  should  have  been  scared  to 
death!" 

"But  I  was  safe  behind  the  pillar,"  she  explained. 
"Your  company  did  its  work  splendidly,"  she  added, 
looking  at  him  with  eyes  dull  and  wondering. 

"Do  you  think  so?  They  are  splendid,  my  men! 
They  make  one  try  to  be  worthy  of  them.  Thank  you!" 
he  said,  blushing  with  pleasure.  "But,  Miss  Galland, 
please — there's  no  firing  now,  but  any  minute ' 

"Yes?" 

He  did  not  attempt  masculine  firmness  this  time,  only 
boyish  pleading  and  a  sort  of  younger-brother  camara 
derie. 

"Miss  Galland,  you're  such  a  good  soldier — please— 
and  I'm  sure  you  have  not  had  your  breakfast,  and  all 
good  soldiers  never  neglect  their  rations,  not  at  the 
beginning  of  a  war!  Miss  Galland,  please —  Yes,  as 
he  meant  it,  please  be  a  good  fellow. 

She  could  not  resist  smiling  at  the  charming  manner 
of  his  plea.  She  felt  weak  and  strange — a  little  dizzy. 
Besides,  her  mother's  voice  now  came  from  the  doorway 
and  then  her  mother's  hand  was  pressing  her  arm. 


FELLER  IS  TEMPTED  241 

"Marta,  if  you  remain  out  here,  I  shall!"  announced 
Mrs.  Galland. 

"I  was  just  coming  in,"  said  Marta. 

Dellarme,  his  cap  held  before  him  in  the  jaunty 
fashion  of  officers,  bowed,  his  face  beaming  his  happiness 
at  her  decision. 

As  they  entered  the  dining-room  Marta  saw  that  the 
shell  which  had  entered  the  window  had  burst  just  over 
the  heavy  mahogany  table  and  a  fragment  of  the  jacket 
had  cut  a  long  scar  in  the  rich  fibre.  She  paused,  her 
breath  coming  and  going  hotly.  She  felt  the  smarting 
pain  of  a  file  drawn  over  the  skin.  The  table  was  very 
old;  for  generations  it  had  been  a  family  treasure.  As 
a  child  she  had  loved  its  polished  surface  and  revered 
its  massive  solidity. 

"Oh!  Oh!  Somebody  ought  to  be  made  to  pay  for 
such  wickedness!"  she  exclaimed  wrathfully. 

"It  will  plane  down  and  it  is  nothing  we  could  help, 
Marta,"  said  Mrs.  Galland.  "Fortunately,  all  the  por 
traits  were  out  of  the  room." 

"Mother,  you — you  are  just  a  little  too  philosoph 
ical!"  complained  Marta. 

"  Come ! "  Mrs.  Galland  slipped  her  hand  into  Marta's. 
"Two  women  can't  fight  both  armies.  Come!  I  pre 
scribe  hot  coffee  It  is  waiting;  and,  do  you  know,  I  find 
a  meal  in  the  kitchen  very  cosey." 

Being  human  and  not  a  heroine  fed  on  lotos  blossoms, 
and  being  exhausted  and  also  hungry,  when  she  was 
seated  at  table,  with  Minna  adroitly  urging  her,  Marta 
ate  with  the  relish  of  little  Peterkin  in  the  shell  crater 
munching  biscuits  from  his  haversack. 


XXVII 
HAND  TO  HAND 

WITH  Mrs.  Galland  on  guard,  insistent  that  wherever 
her  daughter  went  she  should  go,  Marta  might  not  so 
easily  expose  herself  again.  For  the  time  being  she 
seemed  hardly  of  a  mind  to.  She  sat  staring  at  the 
kitchen  clock  on  the  wall  in  front  of  her,  the  only  sign 
of  any  break  in  the  funereal  march  of  her  thoughts  be 
ing  an  occasional  deep-drawn  breath,  or  a  shudder,  or  a 
clenching  of  the  hands,  or  a  bitter  smile  of  irony. 

An  hour  or  more  of  intermittent  firing  passed  in  the 
suspense  of  listening  to  a  trickle  of  water  undermining 
a  dam.  Then,  with  the  roar  of  waters  carrying  away 
the  dam,  a  cataract  of  shell  fire  broke  and  continued 
in  far  heavier  volume  than  that  of  the  first  attack. 

"The  last  war  was  nothing  like  this!"  murmured  Mrs. 
Galland. 

At  every  concussion  against  the  walls  of  the  house,  at 
every  crash  within  the  house,  Marta  pressed  her  nails 
tighter  into  her  palms.  Abruptly  as  the  inferno  of  the 
guns  had  commenced,  it  ceased,  and  the  steady,  passion 
ate,  desperate  blasts  of  the  rifles,  now  uninterrupted, 
were  more  deadly  and  venomous  if  less  shocking  to  the 
ear. 

The  movement  of  the  minute-hand  on  the  clock-face 
became  uncanny  and  merciless  to  her  eye  in  its  deliber 
ate  regularity.  Dellarme  had  been  told  to  hold  on  until 
noon,  she  knew.  Was  he  still  smiling?  Was  Feller 
still  happy  in  playing  a  stream  of  lead  from  the  auto 
matic?  Was  the  second  charge  of  the  Grays,  which 
must  have  come  to  close  quarters  when  the  guns  went 
silent,  going  to  succeed? 

242 


HAND  TO  HAND  243 

The  rifle-fire  died  down  suddenly  and  she  heard  a 
cheer  like  that  of  the  morning,  only  wilder  and  fiercer 
and  even  less  human.  Could  it  be  from  the  Browns 
celebrating  a  repulse?  Or  from  the  Grays  after  taking 
the  position?  What  did  it  matter?  If  the  Grays  had 
won  there  was  an  end  to  the  agony  so  far  as  her  mother 
and  herself  were  concerned — an  end  to  murder  on  the 
lawn  and  devastation  of  their  property.  But,  at  length, 
the  rifle-fire  beginning  again  in  a  slow,  irregular  pulse 
told  her  that  the  Browns  had  held. 

Now  another  long  intermission.  The  demon  was 
wiping  his  brow  and  recovering  his  breath,  Marta 
thought;  he  was  repairing  damaged  joints  in  his  armor 
and  removing  the  flesh  of  victims  from  his  claws.  But 
he  would  not  rest  long,  for  the  war  was  young — exactly 
one  day  old — and  many  battalions  of  victims  remained 
unslain. 

How  slowly  the  big  hand  of  the  clock  kept  hitching 
on  from  minute-mark  to  minute-mark!  Yet  no  more 
slowly  than  the  hands  of  clocks  in  distant  provinces  of 
the  Browns  or  of  the  Grays,  where  this  day  was  as 
quiet  and  peaceful  as  any  other  day. 

Mrs.  Galland  had  settled  down  conscientiously  to 
play  solitaire,  a  favorite  pastime  of  hers;  but  she  failed 
to  win,  as  she  complained  to  Marta,  because  of  her 
stupid  way  this  morning  of  missing  the  combination 
cards. 

•"I  really  believe  I  need  new  glasses,"  she  declared. 

"Let  me  help  you,"  said  Marta.  Welcome  idea! 
Why  hadn't  she  thought  of  it  before?  It  was  something 
to  do. 

"But,  Marta — there  you  are,  covering  up  the  jack  of 
spades,  the  very  card  I  need — though  it  will  not  help 
now.  I've  lost  again!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Galland  at 
length.  "Why,  Marta,  you  miss  worse  than  I  do!" 

"Do  I?  Do  I?"  asked  Marta  in  blank  surprise  and 
irritation.  "  Please  let  me  try  once  alone.  I'll  not  miss 
this  time.  Correct  rne  if  I  do." 


244  THE  LAST  SHOT 

She  played  with  the  deliberation  and  accuracy  of 
Feller  should  he  have  to  make  a  little  ammunition  for 
his  automatic  go  a  long  way,  and  Mrs.  Galland  did  not 
observe  a  single  error. 

"Hurrah!  I  won!"  Marta  cried  triumphantly,  with 
some  of  her  old  vivacity. 

Then  she  drew  away  from  the  table  wearily.  The 
strain  of  concentrating  her  mind  had  been  worse  than 
that  of  the  battle;  or,  rather,  it  had  merely  added  another 
strain  to  a  tortured  brain  after  a  sleepless  night.  For 
her  ears  had  been  constantly  alert.  The  demon  had 
moved  one  of  his  claws  to  fresh  ground;  the  inferno  on 
the  La  Tir  side  of  the  frontier  had  shifted  to  a  valley 
beyond  the  Galland  estate,  where  the  firing  appeared 
to  come  from  the  Brown  side.  Breaking  from  the  leash 
of  silence,  guns,  automatics,  rifles — each  one  straining 
for  a  speed  record — roared  and  crashed  and  rattled  in 
greedy  chorus,  while  the  clock  ticked  perhaps  a  hundred 
times.  Thus  famished  savages  might  bolt  their  food  in 
a  time  limit.  Thereafter,  for  a  while,  the  battle  was 
desultory. 

Then  came  another  outburst  from  Dellarme's  men, 
which  she  interpreted  as  the  response  to  another  rush 
by  the  Grays;  and  this  yelping  of  the  demon  was  not 
that  of  the  hound  after  the  hare,  as  in  the  valley,  but 
of  the  hare  with  his  back  to  the  wall.  When  it  was  over 
there  was  no  cheer.  What  did  this  mean?  Oh,  that 
slow  minute-hand,  resting  so  calmly  between  hitches  of 
destiny,  now  pointing  to  a  quarter  after  eleven!  For 
half  a  century,  it  seemed  to  her,  Marta  had  endured 
watching  its  snail  pace.  Now  inaction  was  no  longer 
bearable.  Without  warning  to  her  mother  she  bolted 
out  of  the  kitchen.  Mrs.  Galland  sprang  up  to  follow, 
but  Minna  barred  the  way. 

"One  is  enough!"  she  said  firmly,  and  Mrs.  Galland 
dropped  back  into  her  chair. 

In  the  front  rooms  Marta  found  havoc  beyond  her 
imagination.  A  portion  of  the  ceiling  had  been  blown 


HAND  TO  HAND  245 

out  by  a  shell  entering  at  an  up-stairs  window;  the  hard 
wood  floors  were  littered  with  plaster  and  window-glass 
and  ripped  into  splinters  in  places. 

"How  can  we  ever  afford  repairs!"  she  thought. 

But  she  hurried  on,  impelled  by  she  knew  not  what, 
through  the  dining-room,  and,  coming  to  the  veranda, 
stopped  short,  with  dilating  eyes  and  a  cry  of  grievous 
shock.  Two  of  his  men  were  carrying  Dellarme  back 
from  the  breastwork  where  they  had  caught  him  in 
their  arms  as  he  fell.  They  laid  him  gently  on  the  sward 
with  a  knapsack  under  his  head.  His  face  grew  whiter 
with  the  flow  of  blood  from  the  red  hole  in  the  right 
breast  of  his  blouse.  Then  he  opened  his  lips  and 
whispered  to  the  doctor:  "How  is  it?"  Something  in 
his  eyes,  in  the  tone  of  that  faint  question,  required  the 
grace  of  a  soldier's  truth  in  answer. 

"Bad!"  said  the  doctor. 

"Then,  good-by!"  And  his  head  fell  to  one  side,  his 
lips  set  in  his  cheery  smile. 

Had  ever  any  martyr  shown  a  finer  spirit  dying  for 
any  cause?  Marta  wondered.  She  felt  the  sublimity 
of  a  great  moment,  an  inexorable  sadness.  She  knew 
that  she  should  never  forget  that  cheery  smile  or  that 
white  face.  What  was  danger  to  anybody?  What  was 
death  if  you  had  seen  how  he  had  died? 

His  company  was  a  company  with  his  smile  out  of  its 
heart  and  in  its  place  blank  despair.  Many  of  the  men 
had  stopped  firing.  Some  had  even  run  back  to  look 
at  him  and  stood,  caps  off,  backs  to  the  enemy,  miser 
able  in  their  grief.  Others  leaned  against  the  parapet, 
rifles  out  of  hand,  staring  and  dazed. 

"They  have  killed  our  captain!" 

"They've  killed  our  captain!" — still  a  captain  to  them. 
A  general's  stars  could  not  have  raised  him  a  cubit  in 
their  estimation. 

"And  once  we  called  him  'Baby  Dellarme,'  he  was 
so  young  and  bashful!  Him  a  baby?  He  was  a 
king!" 


246  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"Men,  get  to  your  places!"  cried  the  surviving  lieu 
tenant  rather  hopelessly,  with  no  Dellarme  to  show  him 
what  to  do;  and  Marta  saw  that  few  paid  any  attention 
to  him. 

In  that  minute  of  demoralization  the  Grays  had  their 
chance,  but  only  for  a  minute.  A  voice  that  seemed  to 
speak  some  uncontrollable  thought  of  her  own  broke 
in,  and  it  rang  with  the  authority  and  leadership  of  a 
mature  officer's  command,  even  though  coming  from  a 
gardener  in  blue  blouse  and  crownless  straw  hat. 

"Your  rifles,  your  rifles,  quick ! "  called  Feller.  "  We're 
only  beginning  to  fight!" 

And  then  another  voice  in  a  bull  roar,  Stransky's: 

"Avenge  his  death!  They've  got  to  kill  the  last  man 
of  us  for  killing  him!  Revenge!  revenge!" 

That  cry  brought  back  to  the  company  all  the  fighting 
spirit  of  the  cheery  smile  and  with  it  another  spirit — for 
Dellarme's  sake! — which  he  had  never  taught  them. 

"Make  them  pay!" 

"He  was  told  to  stay  till  noon!" 

"They'll  find  us  here  at  noon,  alive  or  dead!" 

Stransky  picked  up  one  of  several  cylindrical  objects 
that  were  lying  at  his  feet. 

"He  wouldn't  use  this — he  was  too  soft-hearted — 
but  I  will!"  he  cried,  and  flung  a  hand-grenade,  and  then 
a  second,  over  the  breastwork.  The  explosions  were 
followed  by  agonized  groans  from  the  Grays  hugging 
the  lower  side  of  the  terrace.  For  this  they  had  crawled 
across  the  road  in  the  night — to  find  themselves  unable 
to  move  either  way  and  directly  under  the  flashes  of 
the  Browns'  rifles. 

Feller's  and  Stransky's  shouts  rose  together  in  a  pe 
culiar  unity  of  direction  and  full  of  the  fellowship  they 
had  found  in  their  first  exchange  of  glances. 

"You  engineers,  make  ready!" 

"Hand-grenades  to  the  men  under  the  tree!  That's 
where  they're  going  to  try  for  it — no  wall  to  climb  over 
there!" 


HAND  TO  HAND  247 

"You  engineers,  take  your  rifles — and  bayonet  into 
anything  that  wears  gray!" 

"Get  back,  you  men  by  the  tree,  to  avoid  their  hand- 
grenades!  Form  up  behind  them,  everybody !" 

"No  matter  if  they  do  get  in  at  first!  Back,  you  men, 
from  under  the  tree!" 

There  was  not  a  single  rifle-shot.  In  a  silence  like 
that  before  the  word  to  fire  in  a  duel,  all  orders  were 
heard  and  the  more  readily  obeyed  because  Dellarme's 
foresight  had  impressed  their  sense  upon  the  men  in  his 
quiet  way. 

The  sand-bags  by  the  tree  were  blown  up  by  the  Grays. 
Then,  before  the  dust  had  hardly  settled,  came  a  half 
score  of  hand-grenades  thrown  by  the  first  men  of  a  Gray 
wedge,  scrambling  as  they  were  pushed  through  the 
breach  by  the  pressure  of  the  mass  behind.  In  that 
final  struggle  of  one  set  of  men  to  gain  and  another 
to  hold  a  position,  guns  or  automatics  or  long-range 
bullets  played  no  part.  It  was  the  grapple  of  cold  steel 
with  cold  steel  and  muscle  with  muscle,  in  a  billowing, 
twisting  mob  of  wrestlers,  with  no  sound  from  throats 
but  straining  breaths;  with  no  quarter,  no  distinction  of 
person,  and  bloodshot  eyes  and  faces  hot  with  the  effort 
of  brute  strength  striving,  in  primitive  desperation,  to 
kill  in  order  not  to  be  killed.  The  cloud  of  rocking, 
writhing  arms  and  shoulders  was  neither  going  forward 
nor  backward.  Its  movement  was  that  of  a  vortex, 
while  the  gray  stream  kept  on  pouring  through  the 
breach  as  if  it  were  only  the  first  flood  from  some  gray 
lake  on  the  other  side  of  the  breastwork. 

Marta  had  come  to  the  edge  of  the  veranda,  at  once 
drawn  and  repelled,  feeling  the  fearful  suspense  of  the 
combat,  the  savage  horror  of  it,  and  herself  uttering 
sounds  like  the  straining  breaths  of  the  men.  What  a 
place  for  her  to  be!  But  she  did  not  think  of  that. 
She  was  there.  The  dreadful  alchemy  of  war  had  made 
her  a  stranger  to  herself.  She  was  mad ;  they  were  mad ; 
all  the  world  was  mad! 


248  THE  LAST  SHOT 

One  minute — two,  perhaps — not  three — and  the  thing 
was  over.  She  saw  the  Grays  being  crushed  back  and 
realized  that  the  Browns  had  won,  when  a  last  detail 
of  the  lessening  tumult  fixed  her  attention  with  its 
gladiatorial  simplicity.  Here,  indeed,  it  was  a  case  of 
man  to  man  with  the  weapons  nature  gave  them. 

Standing  higher  than  the  others  on  the  edge  of  the 
breach  was  that  giant  who  had  brought  Grandfather 
Fragini  in  pickaback,  looking  a  young  god  on  an  escarp 
ment  of  rock  on  Olympus.  His  great  nose  showed  in 
silhouette  at  intervals  of  wrestling  lurches  back  and  forth 
as  he  tugged  at  the  rifle  of  a  thick- set  soldier  of  the 
Grays  with  a  liver  patch  on  the  cheek  that  made  his 
face  hideous  enough  for  an  incarnation  of  war's  savagery. 
At  last  Jacob  Pilzer  tumbled  backward  over  the  breast 
work.  Unlucky  Pilzer!  That  bronze  cross  was  further 
away  than  ever  for  him,  while  Stransky  shook  the  trophy 
of  a  captured  rifle  aloft,  a  torn  sleeve  revealing  the 
weaving  muscles  of  his  powerful  arm. 

"I  thought  so!"  cried  Feller.  "Attacks  on  frontal 
positions  by  daylight  are  going  out  of  fashion!" 

It  was  he  who  mercifully  arrested  the  shower  of  hand- 
grenades  that  followed  the  exit  of  the  enemy.  Two  of 
the  guns  of  the  castle  batteries,  having  changed  their 
position,  were  making  havoc  enough  at  pointblank  range, 
with  a  choice  of  targets  between  the  Grays  huddled 
on  the  other  side  of  the  breastwork  and  those  in  re 
treat. 

"  We'll  have  peace  for  a  few  hours  now,"  said  Stransky, 
squinting  down  his  nose.  "And  we'll  have  something 
to  eat.  I  ought  to  have  got  that  fellow  with  the  beauty- 
spot  on  his  physiognomy,  but,  confound  him,  he  was  an 
eel!" 

By  this  time  the  men  had  recovered  their  breath.  It 
occurred  to  them  by  common  impulse  that  a  cheer  was 
due,  and  for  the  first  time  they  broke  into  a  hurrah  with 
wide-open  throats. 

"Another — for    Dellarme!"    called    Stransky,    who 


HAND  TO  HAND  249 

seemed  to  think  that  he  and  not  the  callow  lieutenant 
was  in  command. 

This  they  gave,  standing  instinctively  at  attention, 
with  heads  bared,  for  the  leader  whose  spirit  survived  in 
them;  a  cheer  with  triumph  in  its  roar,  but  a  different 
sort  of  triumph  from  the  first  cheer. 

Listening  to  it  were  the  wounded  among  the  Grays 
who  had  fallen  within  the  breastwork  to  be  trampled  by 
the  Browns  as  they  had  pressed  forward.  The  doctor, 
but  a  moment  ago  a  fiend  himself  with  features  of  rage, 
now,  in  the  second  nature  of  his  calling,  with  a  look  of 
tender  sympathy,  was  ministering  without  distinction  of 
friend  or  foe.  One  of  the  Grays,  his  cheek  bearing  the 
mark  of  a  boot  heel,  raised  himself,  and,  in  defiance  and 
the  satisfaction  of  the  thought  to  his  bruises  and  humilia 
tion,  pointing  his  finger  at  Feller,  Marta  heard  him  say: 

"You  there,  in  your  straw  hat  and  blue  blouse,  they've 
seen  you — a  man  fighting  and  not  in  uniform!  If  they 
catch  you  it  will  be  a  drumhead  and  a  firing  squad  at 
dawn!" 

"That's  so!"  replied  Feller  gravely.  "But  they'll 
have  to  make  a  better  job  of  it  than  you  fellows  did  if 
they're  going  to " 

He  turned  away  abruptly  but  did  not  move  far.  His 
shoulders  relaxed  into  the  gardener's  stoop,  and  he  pulled 
his  hat  down  over  his  eyes  and  lowered  his  head  as  if  to 
hide  his  face.  He  was  thus  standing,  inert,  when  a  di 
vision  staff-officer  galloped  into  the  grounds. 

"Splendid!  Splendid!  There's  some  iron  crosses  in 
this  for  you!"  he  was  shouting  before  he  brought  his 
horse  to  a  standstill.  "The  way  you  held  on  gained 
the  day  for  Lanstron's  plan.  They  tried  to  flank  in  the 
valley  after  their  second  attack  on  your  position  failed. 
We  drew  them  on  and  had  them — a  battalion  in  close 
order — under  the  guns  for  a  couple  of  minutes.  It  was 
ghastly!  Our  losses  have  been  heavy  enough,  but  noth 
ing  to  theirs — and  how  they  are  driving  their  men  in! 
But  where  is  Major  Dellarme?" 


250  THE  LAST  SHOT 

When  he  saw  Dellarme's  still  body  he  dismounted  and 
in  a  tide  of  feeling  which,  for  the  moment,  submerged 
all  thought  of  the  machine,  stood,  head  bowed  and  cap 
off,  looking  down  at  Dellarme's  face. 

"I  was  very  fond  of  him!  He  was  at  the  school  when 
I  was  teaching  there.  But  a  good  death — a  soldier's 
death!"  he  said.  "I'll  write  to  his  mother  myself." 
Then  the  voice  of  the  machine  spoke.  "Who  is  in  com 
mand?" 

"I  am,  sir!"  said  the  callow  lieutenant,  coming  up. 

Feller's  fingers  moved  in  a  restless  beat  on  his  trousers' 
seam,  his  lips  half  parted  as  if  he  must  speak,  but  the 
men  of  the  company  spoke  for  him. 

"Bert  Stransky!"  they  roared. 

It  was  not  according  to  military  etiquette,  but  mili 
tary  etiquette  meant  nothing  to  them  now.  They  were 
above  it  in  veteran  superiority. 

"And—  Stransky  had  started  to  point  to  Feller, 
whose  name  he  did  not  know,  when  a  forbidding  gleam 
under  the  hat  brim  arrested  him. 

"Where's  Stransky?"  demanded  the  staff-officer. 

"You're  looking  at  him!"  replied  Stransky  with  a 
benign  grin. 

Seeing  that  Stransky  was  only  a  private,  the  officer 
frowned  at  the  anomaly  when  a  lieutenant  was  present, 
then  smiled  in  a  way  that  accorded  the  company  par 
liamentary  rights,  which  he  thought  that  they  had  fully 
earned. 

"Yes,  and  he  gets  one  of  those  iron  crosses!"  put  in 
Tom  Fragini. 

"What  for?"  demanded  Stransky  in  surprise.  They 
were  making  a  lot  of  fuss  about  him  when  he  had  not 
done  anything  except  to  work  out  his  individual  des 
tiny. 

"Yes— the  first  cross  for  Bert  of  the  Reds!" 

"And  we'll  let  him  make  a  dozen  anarchist  speeches 
a  day!" 

"Yes,  yes!"  roared  the  company. 


HAND  TO  HAND  251 

"By  all  means — but  not  for  this;  for  trying  to  save  an 
old  man's  life!"  put  in  Marta. 

After  his  survey  of  that  amazing  company  the  officer 
was  the  more  amazed  to  hear  a  woman's  voice  in  such 
surroundings. 

"The  ays  have  it!"  he  announced  cheerfully.  He 
lifted  his  cap  to  Marta.  With  tender  regard  and  grave 
reverence  for  that  company,  he  took  extreme  care  with 
his  next  remark  lest  a  set  of  men  of  such  dynamic  spirit 
might  repulse  him  as  an  invader.  "The  lieutenant  is 
in  command  for  the  present,  according  to  regulations," 
he  proceeded.  "You  will  retire  immediately  to  posi 
tions  48  to  49  A — J  by  the  castle  road.  You  have  done 
your  part.  To-night  you  sleep  and  to-morrow  you  rest." 

Sleep!  Rest!  Where  had  they  heard  those  words 
before?  Oh,  yes,  in  a  distant  day  before  they  went  to 
war!  Sleep  and  rest!  Better  far  than  an  iron  cross  for 
every  man  in  the  company!  They  could  go  now  with 
something  warmer  in  their  hearts  than  consciousness  of 
duty  well  done;  but  this  time  they  need  not  go  until 
their  dead  as  well  as  their  wounded  were  removed. 

"You're  not  coming  with  us?"  Stransky  whispered  to 
Feller. 

"Eh?  eh?"  Feller  put  his  hand  to  his  ear.  "Quite 
deaf!"  he  quavered.  "But  I  judge  you  ask  if  I  am  com 
ing  with  you.  No.  I  have  to  stay  to  look  after  my 
garden.  It  has  been  sadly  damaged,  I  fear." 

"That's  right — of  course  you're  deaf!"  agreed  Stran 
sky,  well  knowing  the  contrary.  "I'll  be  lonely  with 
out  you,  pal.  It  was  love  at  first  sight  with  me!" 

"And  with  me!"  Feller  whispered.  "You  and  I,  with 
a  brigade  of  infantry  and  guns —  "  he  began,  but  remem 
bering  his  part,  as  he  often  would  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence  since  the  distraction  of  war  was  in  his  mind, 
he  turned  to  go. 

"A  cheer  for  the  old  gardener!  We  don't  know  who 
he  is  or  was,  and  it's  none  of  our  business.  He  saved 
the  day!"  called  Stransky. 


252  THE  LAST  SHOT 

Feller  started;  he  paused  and  looked  back  as  he  heard 
that  stentorian  chorus  in  his  honor;  and,  irresistibly,  he 
made  a  snappy  officer's  salute  before  starting  on. 

"That  was  very  sweet  to  me,"  he  was  thinking,  and 
then:  "A  mistake!  a  mistake!  One  thought!  One 
duty!" 

Making  to  pass  around  the  corner  of  the  house,  he 
was  confronted  by  Marta,  who  had  come  to  the  end  of 
the  veranda.  There,  within  hearing  of  the  soldiers,  the 
dialogue  that  followed  was  low-toned,  and  it  was  swift 
and  palpitant  with  repressed  emotion. 

"Mr.  Feller,  I  saw  you  at  the  automatic.  I  heard 
what  the  wounded  private  of  the  Grays  said  to  you  and 
realized  how  true  it  was." 

"He  is  a  prisoner.     He  cannot  tell." 

"Does  he  need  to?  You  have  been  seen — the  con 
spicuous  figure  of  a  man  in  gardener's  garb  fighting  on 
the  very  terrace  of  his  own  garden!  The  Gray  staff  is 
bound  to  hear  of  such  an  extraordinary  occurrence. 
It  is  one  of  those  stories  that  travel  of  themselves.  And 
Westerling  will  find  that  same  gardener  here  when  he 
comes!  What  hope  have  you  for  your  ruse,  then?" 

"I — I — no  matter!  I  forgot  myself,  when  Lanny  had 
warned  me  not  to  go  near  the  guns.  My  promise  to  him ! 
My  duty!  I  accept  what  I  have  prepared  for  myself— 
that  is  a  soldier's  code." 

"But  I  shall  not  let  you  risk  your  life  in  this  fashion." 

"You —  A  searching  look — a  look  of  fire — from  his 
eyes  into  hers,  which  were  bright  with  appeal. 

"I  feel  that  I  have  no  right  to  let  you  go  to  your  death 
by  a  firing  squad,"  she  interrupted  hurriedly,  "and  I 
shall  not!  For  I  decide  now  not  to  allow  the  telephone 
to  remain!" 

"But  my  chance — my  one  chance  to — 

"You  have  it  there — happiness  in  the  work  you  like; 
the  work  for  which  you  seem  to  have  been  born — at 
least,  a  better  work  than  spying  and  deceit — the  right 
that  you  have  won  this  morning  there  with  the  gun!" 


HAND  TO  HAND  253 

"I" — he  looked  around  at  the  automatic  ravenously 
and  fearsomely — "I " 

"It  is  all  simply  arranged.  There  is  time  for  me  to 
use  the  telephone  before  the  Grays  arrive.  I  shall  tell 
Lanny  why  you  took  charge  of  the  gun  and  how  you 
handled  it,  and  I  know  he  will  want  you  to  keep  it." 

"And  the  uniform — the  uniform  again!  Yes,  the  uni 
form — if  only  a  gunner  private's  uniform!"  he  exclaimed 
in  short,  pulsating  breaths  of  ecstasy. 

"Yes,  count  on  that,  too!    And  good-by!" 

"Good-by!  I — "  But  she  had  already  turned  away. 
"  I've  changed  my  mind !  Exit  gardener!  Enter  gunner  I 
I'm  going  with  you!  I'm  going  with  you!"  he  cried  in  a 
jubilant  voice  that  arrested  the  attention  of  every  one  on 
the  grounds.  They  saw  him  throw  his  arms  around 
Stransky  and  then  rush  to  the  automatic.  "One 
thought !  One  duty !  Oh,  that  is  easy  now ! "  he  breathed , 
caressing  the  breech  with  a  flutter  of  pats  from  both 
hands. 


xxvm 

AN  APPEAL  TO  PARTOW 

"You,  Marta — you  are  still  there!"  Lanstron  ex 
claimed  in  alarm  when  he  heard  her  voice  over  the  tun 
nel  telephone.  "But  safe!"  he  added  in  relief.  "Thank 
God  for  that!  It's  a  mighty  load  off  my  mind.  And 
your  mother?" 

"Safe,  too." 

"And  Minna  and  little  Clarissa  Eileen?" 

"All  safe." 

"Well,  you're  through  the  worst  of  it.  There  won't 
be  any  more  fighting  around  the  house,  and  certainly 
Westerling  will  be  courteous.  But  where  is  Gustave?" 

"Gone!" 

"Gone!"  he  repeated  dismally. 

In  a  flash  he  had  guessed  another  tragedy  for  poor 
Gustave,  who  must  have  once  more  failed  to  stick  to 
his  purpose,  thus  shattering  the  last  hope  that  the 
thousandth  chance  would  ever  come  to  anything. 

"Wait  until  you  hear  how  he  went,"  Marta  said. 
With  all  the  vividness  of  her  impressions,  a  partisan  for 
the  moment  of  him  and  Dellarme,  she  sketched  Feller's 
part  with  the  automatic. 

As  he  listened,  Lanstron's  spirit  was  twenty  again, 
with  the  fever  that  Feller's  "let's  set  things  going!" 
could  start  rollicking  in  his  veins.  What  did  the  thou 
sandth  chance  matter?  Only  a  wool-gatherer  would  ever 
have  had  any  faith  in  it.  Victory  for  Gustave!  Vic 
tory  for  the  friend  in  whom  he  believed  when  others  had 
disbelieved!  Victory  for  those  gifts  that  had  broken  a 

254 


AN  APPEAL  TO  PARTOW  255 

career  against  army  routine  in  peace,  once  they  had  full 
play  in  war! 

"I  can  see  him,"  he  said.  "It  was  a  full  breath  of 
fresh  air  to  the  lungs  of  a  suffocating  man.  I " 

Marta  was  off  in  interruption  in  the  full  tide  of  an 
appeal. 

"You  must — I  promised — you  must  let  him  have  the 
uniform  again!"  she  begged.  "You  must  let  him  keep 
his  automatic.  To  take  it  away  would  be  like  sepa 
rating  mother  and  child;  like  separating  Minna  from 
Clarissa  Eileen." 

"Better  than  an  automatic — a  battery  of  guns!"  re 
plied  Lanstron.  "This  is  where  I  will  use  any  influence 
I  have  with  Par  tow  for  all  it  is  worth.  Now,  let  the  red- 
tapists  dare  to  point  to  his  past  when  I  ask  anything  for 
him  and  I'll  overwhelm  them  with  the  living  present! 
Yes,  and  he  shall  have  the  iron  cross.  It  is  for  such 
deeds  as  his  that  the  iron  cross  was  meant." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "It's  worth  something  to 
make  a  man  as  happy  as  you  will  make  him.  Yes,  you 
are  real  flesh  and  blood  to  do  this,  Lanny." 

Her  point  won  with  surprising  ease,  when  she  had 
feared  that  military  form  and  law  could  not  be  circum 
vented,  she  leaned  against  the  wall  in  reaction.  For 
twenty-four  hours  she  had  been  without  sleep.  The 
interest  of  her  appeal  for  Feller  had  kept  up  her  strength 
after  the  excitement  of  the  fight  for  the  redoubt  was  over. 
Now  there  seemed  nothing  left  to  do. 

"No  doctor  who  ever  examined  me  for  promotion 
has  yet  found  that  I  wasn't  flesh  and  blood,"  Lanstron 
remarked  a  little  plaintively. 

"Then  the  doctor  must  have  kept  the  truth  from  Par- 
tow,"  she  told  him  with  a  faint  return  of  the  teasing 
spirit  that  he  knew  well.  "He  wants  only  men  of  steel, 
with  nerves  of  copper  wire  run  by  an  electric  battery, 
on  his  staff,  I'm  sure." 

Lanstron  laughed  very  humanly  for  an  automaton. 

"I'll  suggest  the  battery  to  him.    It  might  prove  a 


256  THE  LAST  SHOT 

labor  saver/'  he  said.  "  Being  a  little  old-fashioned,  he 
has  depended  on  clockwork,  which  requires  a  special 
orderly  to  wind  us  when  we  run  down  and  nod  at  our 
desks.''  Then  he  turned  solicitous.  "The  Gray  staff 
will  certainly  give  you  an  escort  beyond  the  Gray  lines, 
where  you  will  find  a  place  to  establish  yourselves  com 
fortably." 

The  suggestion  brought  her  energy  back  with  the 
snap  of  a  whip. 

"No!"  she  declared.  "We  stay  in  our  home.  It's 
ours!  No  one  else  has  any  right  there  while  our  taxes 
are  paid.  Doesn't  my  children's  oath  say:  Til  not  let  a 
.burglar  drive  me  out  of  my  house'?" 

"Isn't  that  coming  around  to  my  view,  Marta?"  he 
asked.  "Aren't  we  refusing  to  leave  the  nation's  house 
because  a  burglar  is  trying  to  enter?" 

"Lanny,  you,  with  all  your  intellect — when  you  know 
the  oath  as  well  as  I — you  pettifog  like  that!  The  oath 
says  to  appeal  to  justice  and  reason  even  after  the  first 
blow  is  struck.  Why  doesn't  our  premier  appeal  to 
the  people  of  the  Grays?" 

"They  garbled  his  last  despatch,  as  it  was,  to  suit 
their  purpose." 

"Their  government  garbled  it.  I  meant  to  appeal 
not  to  their  premier  but  to  the  people,  as  human  beings 
to  human  beings.  Over  there  they're  human  beings 
just  as  much  as  we  are.  Why  didn't  Partow  speak,  too, 
as  chief  of  staff,  if  he  is  so  fond  of  peace?  He  is  the  one 
— not  the  Fellers  and  the  Dellarmes  and  the  Stranskys, 
who  merely  act  up  to  their  faith  and  training  as  pawns — 
he  in  the  security  of  his  cabinet  making  war.  Why 
didn't  he  say:  'We  do  not  want  war.  We  will  not 
mobilize  our  army.  We  will  do  nothing  to  arouse  the 
war  passion? ' ' 

"Their  government  would  only  have  been  convinced 
of  an  easier  conquest,  and  by  this  time  they  would  have 
been  up  to  the  main  line  of  defence.  Marta,  when  the 
diplomatic  history  of  the  war  is  known  it  will  be  found 


AN  APPEAL  TO  PARTOW  257 

that  the  Gray  government  struck  as  a  matter  of  cold, 
deliberate  intention.  Bodlapoo  was  only  an  excuse  to 
carry  out  a  plan  of  conquest." 

"So  Partow  has  taught  the  Browns,"  she  answered 
stubbornly.  "That  is  one  partisan  view.  What  is 
theirs?  What  is  Westerling  teaching  the  Grays?" 

"Marta— really,  I- 

"What  a  smashing  argument  really  is!  You  see 
that  you  really  are  not  for  peace,  but  for  war.  But 
won't  you  ask  Partow  to  clo  one  thing,  if  he  still  insists 
that  he  is  for  peace?  I  \vonder  if  he  will  chuckle  or 
laugh  at  my  suggestion,  or  will  he  grin  or  roar?  Though 
you  know  that  he  will  do  them  all,  ask  him  to  send  out  a 
flag  of  truce  to  the  Grays  and  beg  them  to  stay  their 
operations  while  his  appeal — an  appeal  with  a  little  of 
the  Christ  spirit  in  it,  from  one  Christian  nation  to  an 
other  to  stop  the  murder — fs  read  to  the  Gray  soldiers 
and  ours;  to  those  who  have  to  suffer  and  die!  Oh,  I'd 
like  to  help  write  that  appeal,  telling  the  women  what  I 
have  seen!  Do  you  think  if  lit  were  given  to  the  world 
that  the  Grays  would  still  come  on?  Ask  him,  Lanny, 
ask  him  to  make  that  simple  human  appeal,  as  brother  to 
brother,  to  the  court  of  all  humanity!  Ask  him,  please, 
Lanny!" 

"I  shall,  Marta!"  he  replied  seriously,  in  respect  for 
her  seriousness  throbbing  with  the  abandoned  play  of 
her  vitality,  though  he  knew  how  fruitless  the  request 
would  be.  He  loved  her  the  naore  for  this  outburst. 
He  loved  her  for  her  quick  sympathies  with  any  one  in 
trouble,  whether  Feller  or  Minna;  for  all  of  her  incon 
sistencies  which  were  so  real  to  her;  for  her  dreams,  her 
visions,  her  impulses,  because  she  tried  to  put  them  in 
action,  and  he  envied  Feller  for  having  fought  in  de 
fence  of  her  house.  How  could  ho  expect  her  to  inter 
est  herself  exclusively  in  him  as  one  human  being  when 
all  human  beings  interested  her  so  profoundly?  If  the 
world  were  peopled  with  Martas  ami  their  disciples  then 
her  proposal  would  be  practicable. 


258  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"That's  fine  of  you,  Lanny!"  she  said.  "You've 
taken  it  like  a  good  stoic,  this  loss  of  your  thousandth 
chance.  You  really  believed  in  it,  didn't  you?" 

"Forgotten  already,  like  the  many  other  thousandth 
chances  that  have  failed,"  he  replied  cheerfully.  "One 
of  the  virtues  of  Partow's  steel,  automatons  is  that,  being 
tearless  as  well  as  passionless.,  they  never  cry  over  spilt 
milk.  And  now,"  he  went  on  soberly,  "we  must  be 
saying  good-by." 

"Good-by,  Lanny?  Why,  what  do  you  mean?"  She 
was  startled. 

"Till  the  war  is  over,"  he  said,  "and  longer  than  that, 
perhaps,  if  La  Tir  remains  in  Gray  territory." 

"You  speak  as  if  you  thought  you  were  going  to 
lose!" 

"Not  while  many  of  our  soldiers  are  alive,  if  they  con 
tinue  to  show  the  spirit  that  they  have  shown  so  far; 
not  unless  two  men  can  cnash  one  man  in  the  automatic- 
gun-recoil  age.  But  La  Tir  is  in  a  tangent  and  already 
in  the  Grays'  possession,  while  we  act  on  the  defensive. 
So  I  should  hardly  be  flying  over  your  garden  again." 

"But  there's  the  telephone,  Lanny,  and  here  we  are 
talking  over  it  this  very  minute!"  she  expostulated. 

"You  must  remove  it,"  he  said.  "If  the  Grays  should 
discover  it  they  might  form  a  suspicion  that  would  put 
you  in  an  unpleasant  position." 

The  telephone  had  become  almost  a  familiar  institu 
tion  in  her  thoughts.  Its  secret  had  something  of  the 
fascination  for  her  of  magic. 

"Nonsense!"  she  ex:claimed.  "I  am  going  to  be  very 
lonely.  I  want  to  leatfn  how  Feller  is  doing — I  want  to 
chat  with  you.  So  I.  decide  not  to  let  it  be  taken  out. 
And,  you  see,  I  have  the  tactical  situation,  as  you  sol 
diers  call  it,  all  in  my  favor.  The  work  of  removal  must 
be  done  at  my  end  of  the  line.  You're  quite  helpless 
to  enforce  your  wishes.  And,  Lanny,  if  I  ring  the  bell 
you'll  answer,  won'tt  you?" 

"I  couldn't  help  it!"  he  replied. 


AN  APPEAL  TO  PARTOW  259 

"Until  then!  You've  been  fine  about  everything  to 
day!" 

"Until  then!" 

When  Marta  left  the  tower  sve  knew  only  that  she 
was  weary  with  the  mind-weariness,  the  body-weariness, 
the  nerve-weariness  of  a  spectator  who  has  shared  the 
emotion  of  every  actor  in  a  drama  of  death  and  finds  the 
excitement  that  has  kept  her  tense  no  longer  a  sustain 
ing  force. 

As  she  went  along  the  path,  steps  uncertain  from  sheer 
fatigue,  her  sensibilities  livened  again  at  the  sight  of  a 
picture.  War,  personal  war,  in  the  form  of  the  giant 
Stransky,  was  knocking  at  the  kitchen  door.  His 
two-days-old  beard  was  matted  with  dust  and  there 
were  dried  red  spatters  on  his  cheek.  War's  furnace 
flames  seemed  to  have  tanned  him;  war  seemed  to  be 
breathing  from  his  deep  chest;  his  big  nose  was  war's 
promontory.  But  the  unexposed  space  of  his  forehead 
seemed  singularly  white  when  he  took  off  his  cap  as 
Minna  came  m  answer  to  his  knock.  Her  yielding  lips 
were  parted,  her  eyes  were  bright  with  inquiry  and  sus 
picion,  her  chin  was  firmly  set. 

"I  came  to  see  if  you  would  let  me  kiss  your  hand 
again,"  said  Stransky,  squinting  through  his  brows  wist 
fully. 

"Would  that  do  you  any  good?"  Minna  asked. 

"A  lot— a  big  lot!"  said  Stransky.  "But  if  it  is 
easier  for  you,  why,  you  can  give  me  another  blow  in 
the  face.  I  deserve  it.  It  would  show  that  you  weren't 
quite  indifferent;  that  you  took  some  interest  in  me." 

"I  see  your  nose  has  been  broken  once.  You  don't 
want  it  broken  a  second  time.  I'm  stronger  than  you 
think!"  Minna  retorted,  and  held  out  her  hand  care 
lessly  as  if  it  pleased  her  to  humor  him. 

He  was  rather  graceful,  despite  his  size,  as  he  touched 
his  lips  to  her  fingers.  Just  as  he  raised  his  head  a 
burst  of  cheering  rose  from  the  yard. 

"So  you've  found  that  we  have  gone,  you  brilliant 


26o  THE  LAST  SHOT 

intellects!"  he  shouted,  and  glared  at  the  wall  of  the 
house  in  the  direction  of  the  cheers. 

" Quick!  You  have  no  time  to  lose!"  Minna  warned 
him. 

"Quick!  quick!"  cried  Marta. 

Stransky  paid  no  attention  to  the  urgings.  He  had 
something  more  to  say  to  Minna. 

"I'm  going  to  keep  thinking  of  you  and  seeing  your 
face — the  face  of  a  good  woman — while  I  fight.  And 
when  the  war  is  over,  may  I  come  to  call?  "  he  asked. 

His  feet  were  so  resolutely  planted  on  the  flags  that 
apparently  the  only  way  to  move  them  was  to  consent. 

"Yes,  yes!"  said  Minna.    "Now,  hurry!" 

"Say,  but  you  make  me  happy!  Watch  me  poke  it 
into  the  Grays  for  you!"  he  cried  and  bolted. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  he  is  the  biggest,  most  ridiculous 
man  I  ever  saw!"  said  Minna,  as  she  watched  him  out 
of  sight.  "I'm  tired,  just  tired  to  death,  aren't  you?" 
she  added  to  Marta. 

"Exactly!"  agreed  Marta.  "I  feel  as  if  I  had  worked 
my  way  through  hell  to  heaven  and  heaven  was  the 
chance  to  sleep." 

Within  the  kitchen  Mrs.  Galland  was  already  slum 
bering  soundly  in  her  chair.  Overhead  Marta  heard 
the  exclamations  of  male  voices  and  the  tread  of  what 
was  literally  the  heel  of  the  conqueror — guests  that  had 
come  without  asking!  Intruders  that  had  entered  with 
out  any  process  of  law!  Would  they  overrun  the  house, 
her  mother's  room,  her  own  room? 

Indignation  brought  fresh  strength  as  she  started  up 
the  stairs.  The  head  of  the  flight  gave  on  to  a  dark 
part  of  the  hall.  There  she  paused,  held  by  the  scene 
that  a  score  or  more  of  Gray  soldiers,  who  had  riotously 
crowded  into  the  dining-room,  were  enacting. 


XXIX 

THROUGH  THE  VENEER 

THESE  men  in  the  dining-room  were  members  of 
Fracasse's  company  of  the  Grays  whom  Marta  had  seen 
from  her  window  the  night  before  rushing  across  the 
road  into  the  garden.  It  is  time  for  their  story — the 
story  of  their  attack  on  the  redoubt.  One  of  those  who 
remained  motionless  on  the  road  was  the  doctor's  son. 
If  he  had  sprained  his  ankle  at  manoeuvres,  the  whole 
company  would  have  gossiped  about  the  accident.  If  he 
had  died  in  the  garrison  hospital  from  pneumonia,  the 
barracks  would  have  been  blue  for  a  week.  If  he  had 
fallen  in  the  charge  across  the  white  posts,  the  day- 
laborer's  son  on  his  right  and  the  judge's  son  on  his  left 
would  have  felt  a  spasm  of  horror. 

This  is  death,  they  would  have  thought;  death  that 
barely  missed  us;  death  that  lays  a  man  in  the  full  tide 
of  youth,  as  we  are,  silent  and  still  forever. 

Twelve  hours  after  the  war  had  begun,  when  the 
judge's  son  missed  the  doctor's  son  from  the  ranks,  he 
remarked : 

"Then  they  must  have  got  him!" 

"Yes,  I  Saw  him  roll  over  on  his  side,"  said  the 
laborer's  son. 

There  was  no  further  comment.  The  lottery  had 
drawn  the  doctor's  son  this  time;  it  would  get  some 
one  else  with  the  next  rush.  Existence  had  resolved  it 
self  into  a  hazard;  all  perspective  was  merged  into  a 
brimstone-gray  background.  The  men  did  not  think  of 
home  and  parents,  as  they  had  on  the  previous  night 
while  they  waited  for  the  war  to  begin,  or  of  patriotism. 
Relatives  were  still  dear  and  country  was  still  dear,  but 

261 


262  THE  LAST  SHOT 

the  threads  of  these  affections  were  no  longer  taut. 
They  hung  loose.  Fatalism  had  taken  the  place  of  sus 
pense.  There  is  no  occurrence  that  frequency  will  not 
make  familiar,  and  they  were  already  familiar  with 
death. 

A  man  might  even  get  used  to  falling  from  a  great 
height.  At  first,  in  lightning  rapidity  of  thought,  all  his 
life  would  pass  in  review  before  him  and  all  his  hopes 
for  the  future  would  crowd  thick.  But  what  if  he  were 
to  go  on  descending  for  hours;  yes,  for  days?  Would 
not  his  sensations  finally  wear  themselves  down  to  a 
raw,  quivering  brain  and  the  brain  at  length  grow  cal 
lous?  Suppose,  further,  that  a  number  of  men  had 
been  thrown  over  a  precipice  at  the  same  time  as  he 
and  that  the  bottom  of  the  abyss  was  the  distance  from 
star  to  star!  Suppose  that  they  fell  at  the  same  rate  of 
speed!  The  first  to  be  dashed  against  a  shelf  of  rock 
would  be  a  ghastly  reminder  to  each  man  of  his  own  ap 
proaching  end.  But,  proceeding  on  horror's  journey,  he 
would  become  accustomed  to  such  pictures.  He  would 
feel  hunger  and  cold.  Physical  discomfort  would  over 
whelm  mental  agony.  If  a  biscuit  shot  out  from  the 
pocket  of  a  corpse,  wouldn't  the  living  hand  grab  for 
it  in  brute  greediness? 

The  thinner  the  veneer  of  civilized  habit,  the  more 
easily  the  animal,  always  waiting  and  craving  war, 
breaks  through.  And  the  animal  was  strong  in  Jacob 
Pilzer,  the  butcher's  son.  He  had  a  bull's  heart  and 
lacked  the  little  tendrils  of  sensibility  whose  writhing 
would  tire  him.  Hugo  Mallin  had  these  tendrils  by  the 
thousand.  He  had  so  many  that  they  gave  him  a 
reserve  physical  endurance  lie  a  kind  of  intoxication. 
He  felt  as  if  he  had  been  drinking  some  noxious,  foamy 
wine  which  made  his  mind  singularly  keen  to  every  im 
pression.  Therefore  he  and  Pilzer  alone  of  Fracasse's 
company  were  not  utterly  fatigued. 

The  savagery  of  Pilzer's  bitterness  at  seeing  another 
get  the  bronze  cross  before  he  received  one  turned  not 


THROUGH  THE  VENEER  263 

on  little  Peterkin,  the  valet's  son,  but  on  Hugo.  As  he 
and  Hugo  moved,  elbow  to  elbow,  picking  their  way 
forward  from  the  knoll,  he  eased  his  mind  with  rough 
sarcasm  at  Hugo's  expense.  He  christened  Hugo 
"  White  Liver."  When  Hugo  stumbled  over  a  stone  he 
whispered : 

"  White  Liver,  that  comes  from  the  shaking  knees  of 
a  coward!" 

Hugo  did  not  answer,  nor  did  he  after  they  had  crossed 
the  road  and  were  under  the  cover  of  the  fourth  terrace 
wall,  and  Pilzer  whispered: 

"  Still  with  us,  little  White  Liver?  Cowards  are 
lucky.  But  your  time  will  come.  You  will  die  of 
fright." 

They  worked  their  way  ahead  in  the  darkness  to  the 
third  terrace  and  then  to  the  second,  without  drawing 
fire.  There  they  were  told  to  unslip  their  packs  "and 
sleep — sleep!" 

Fracasse  passed  the  word,  as  if  this  were  also  an  order 
which  perforce  must  be  obeyed.  They  dropped  down  in 
a  row,  their  heads  against  the  cold  stone  wall.  So 
closely  packed  were  their  bodies  that  they  could  feel 
one  another's  breaths  and  heart-beats.  Where  last  night 
they  had  thought  of  a  multitude  of  things  in  vivid 
flashes,  to-night  nothing  was  vivid  after  the  last  explo 
sion  in  the  town  and  there  was  an  end  of  firing.  Spaces 
of  consciousness  and  unconsciousness  were  woven  to 
gether  in  a  kind  of  patchwork  chaos  of  mind.  For  the 
raw  brains  were  not  yet  quite  calloused;  they  quivered 
from  the  successive  benumbing  shocks  of  the  day. 

Hugo  would  not  even  cheat  himself  by  trying  to  close 
his  eyes.  He  lay  quite  still  looking  at  the  quietly  twin 
kling,  kindly  stars.  Unlike  his  comrades,  he  had  not 
to  go  to  hell  in  order  to  know  what  hell  was  like.  He 
had  foreseen  the  nature  of  war's  reality,  so  it  had  not 
come  as  a  surprise.  Sufficient  universal  projection  of 
this  kind  of  imagination  might  afford  sufficient  martial 
excitement  without  war. 


264  THE  LAST  SHOT 

His  mind  was  busy  in  the  gestation  of  his  impressions 
and  observations  since  he  had  crossed  the  frontier. 
Definitely  he  knew  that  he  was  not  afraid  of  bullets  or 
shell  fire,  and  in  this  fact  he  found  no  credit  whatever. 
The  lion  and  the  tiger  and  the  little  wild  pigs  of  South 
America  who  will  charge  a  railroad  train  are  brave. 
But  it  took  some  courage  to  bear  Fiber's  abuse  in  silence, 
he  was  thinking,  while  he  was  conscious  that  out  of  all 
that  he  had  seen  and  felt  in  the  conflict  of  multitudinous 
angles  of  view  was  coming  something  definite,  which 
would  result  in  personal  action,  fearless  of  any  conse 
quences. 

The  thing  that  held  him  back  from  a  declaration  of 
self  was  the  pale  faces  around  him;  his  comrades  of  the 
barracks  and  manoeuvres.  He  loved  them;  he  thought, 
student  fashion,  that  he  understood  them.  He  liked 
being  their  humorist;  he  liked  to  win  their  glances  of 
affection.  The  fortitude  to  endure  their  contempt, 
their  enmity,  their  ostracism  would  not  save  those  dear 
to  him  in  his  distant  provincial  home  from  humiliation 
and  heart-break.  There  was  the  rub:  his  father  and 
mother  and  his  sweetheart.  He  was  an  only  son.  His 
sweetheart  was  a  goddess  to  his  eyes.  What  purpose  is 
there  in  the  rebellion  of  a  grain  of  sand  on  the  seashore, 
in  the  insubordination  of  one  of  five  million  soldiers? 
Hadn't  Westerling  answered  all  doubts  with  the  apho 
rism,  "It  is  a  mistake  for  a  soldier  to  think  too  much"? 

Thus  pondering,  in  the  company  of  the  stars,  Hugo, 
who  had  so  many  thoughts  of  his  own  that  he  led  a 
double  life,  awaited  the  dawn.  When  the  church  spire 
became  outlined  in  the  rosy,  breaking  light  of  the  east, 
he  thought  how  much  it  was  like  the  church  spire  of  his 
own  town.  He  saw  that  he  was  in  what  had  been  a 
beautiful,  tenderly  cared-for  old  garden  before  soldiery 
had  ruthlessly  trampled  its  flowers. 

Raising  his  head  to  a  level  with  the  terrace  wall — the 
second  terrace  was  low — he  could  see  the  piles  of  sand 
bags  on  the  first  terrace  only  twenty  feet  away  and  an 


THROUGH  THE  VENEER  265 

old  house  that  belonged  to  the  garden.  The  location 
appealed  to  him  as  his  glance  swept  over  plain  and 
mountains  glistening  with  dew.  It  must  be  glorious  to 
come  down  from  the  veranda  at  daybreak  or  day's  end 
to  look  at  the  flowers  at  your  feet  and  the  horizon  in  the 
distance. 

"  Could  little  White  Liver  sleep  away  from  home  and 
mamma?  Did  he  long  for  mamma  to  tuck  him  among 
the  goose  feathers,  with  a  sweet  biscuit  in  his  paddy?" 
inquired  Pilzer  awakening. 

Hugo  looked  around  at  Pilzer  in  his  quizzical  fashion. 

"  Jake,  you  are  unnecessarily  uprooting  an  aster  with 
the  toe  of  your  boot,"  he  said. 

Pilzer  had  a  torrent  of  abuse  ready  to  his  tongue's 
end  when  Fracasse  interrupted  with  a  hoarse,  whispered 
warning : 

"Silence,  Pilzer!    You  talk  too  much." 

Now  the  irascible  Pilzer  had  a  further  grudge  against 
Hugo  for  having  made  him  the  object  of  a  reprimand. 

"You  —  — !"  he  whispered,  when  the  captain's 
back  was  turned,  calling  Hugo  a  foul  name. 

This  cut  through  even  Hugo's  philosophy  and  the 
blood  went  in  a  hot  rush  to  his  cheeks ;  but  he  slipped  on 
his  pack,  as  the  others  were  doing,  and  readjusted  his 
cartridge-box.  Word  was  passed  to  make  ready  for 
another  rush,  and  soon  the  men  knew  that  yesterday 
was  not  part  of  the  hideous  nightmare  which  had  kept 
their  legs  quivering  mechanically,  as  in  the  charge,  while 
they  slept,  but  that  the  nightmare  was  a  continuing 
reality  and  the  peace  of  morning  a  dream. 

Under  cover  of  the  rain  of  shell  fire  on  Dellarme's 
position,  already  described,  they  mounted  the  wall  of 
the  second  terrace  and  ran  to  the  wall  of  the  first  ter 
race.  They  had  expected  to  suffer  terribly,  but  passed 
safely  underneath  a  sheet  of  bullets  that  caught  other 
sections  of  their  regiment  on  the  lower  terraces.  Over 
their  heads  were  the  muzzles  of  the  Browns'  rifles,  blaz 
ing  toward  the  road,  while  in  the  direction  of  the  tower 


266  THE  LAST  SHOT 

they  saw  the  first  charge  of  another  regiment  melting 
like  snow  under  sprays  of  flame.  They  could  not  fire 
at  Dellarme's  men  and  Dellarme's  men  could  not  fire 
at  them  without  leaning  over  the  parapet.  They  could 
not  go  ahead.  There  was  no  room  to  their  rear,  for  the 
reserves  behind  the  third  terrace  had  rushed  up  to  the 
second  terrace;  those  behind  the  fourth  to  the  third; 
and  still  others  across  the  road  to  the  fourth,  in  succes 
sive  waves. 

With  a  welter  of  slaughter  around  them,  Fracasse's 
men  were  in  something  of  the  position  that  little  Peter- 
kin  had  enjoyed  in  the  shell  crater.  They  ate  a  break 
fast  of  biscuits,  washed  down  by  water  from  their  can 
teens.  Trickles  of  sand  from  bullet  holes  sprinkled  their 
shoulders  and  they  had  enough  resiliency  of  spirit  to 
grin  when  a  stream  of  sand  from  a  bag  torn  by  a  shell 
burst  ran  down  the  back  of  Pilzer's  neck.  It  was  rather 
amusing  to  hear  Jake  growling  as  he  twisted  in  his 
blouse. 

Hugo  caught  the  humor  of  it  in  another  sense,  for  the 
same  shell  burst  threw  a  piece  of  brown  sleeve  matted 
in  a  piece  of  flesh  among  the  flowers.  The  next  instant 
he  saw  a  squad  of  Grays  who  sprang  up  to  rush  toward 
the  linden  stumps  go  down  under  the  hose  stream  from 
the  automatic  with  the  precision  of  having  been  struck 
by  an  electric  current.  Not  occupied,  as  he  had  been 
yesterday,  with  the  business  of  keeping  to  his  part  as  a 
physical  cog  in  the  machine,  he  was  seeing  war  as  a 
spectator — as  Marta  saw  it,  as  only  a  privileged  few  ever 
see  it.  Society,  he  was  thinking,  took  the  trouble  to 
bring  boys  through  the  whooping-cough  and  measles, 
pay  for  clothing  and  doctors'  bills,  and,  while  it  com 
plained  about  business  losses  and  safe-guarded  trees 
and  harvests  and  buildings,  destroyed  the  most  valuable 
product  of  all  with  a  spatter  of  bullets  from  a  rapid-firer. 

The  position  of  him  and  his  comrades  struck  him  as 
tragically  ludicrous.  Were  they  grown  men?  Had 
they  reasoning  minds?  Were  they  of  the  great  races 


THROUGH  THE  VENEER  267 

that  had  given  the  world  steam-power,  electric  power, 
anaesthesia,  and  antiseptics?  Had  they  the  religion  of 
Christ?  Had  they  an  inheritance  of  great  ages  of  art, 
literature,  music,  and  philosophy?  Did  they  guard  the 
treasures  of  their  libraries  and  galleries?  Would  they 
shudder  in  indignation  if  some  one  sent  a  bullet  through 
the  Sistine  Madonna,  or  throw  a  bomb  at  the  Venus  de 
Milo,  or  struck  a  rare  Chinese  porcelain  into  fragments 
with  an  axe? 

Yes;  oh,  yes! 

Here  were  beings  created  in  the  likeness  of  their 
Maker,  whose  criterion  of  superiority  over  other  animals 
was  in  these  symbols  and  not  in  that  of  tooth,  claw,  or 
talon,  disembowelling  their  fellow  creatures.  Here  were 
beings  huddled  together  like  a  lot  of  puppies  or  cubs  on 
an  island  in  the  midst  of  carnage  which  was  not  a  visita 
tion  of  the  Almighty,  but  of  their  own  making.  And 
suicide  and  homicide  were  against  the  law  in  the  lands 
of  both  the  Browns  and  the  Grays! 

The  whole  business  was  monstrous,  lunatic,  incon 
ceivable.  Yet  he  himself  was  one  of  the  actors,  without 
the  character  or  the  courage  to  break  free  of  the  machine 
which  was  taking  lives  with  the  irresponsibility  of  a  baby 
hammering  at  the  jewels  of  a  watch.  The  fact  that  he 
knew  better  made  him  far  more  culpable,  he  thought, 
than  little  Peterkin  or  any  of  his  comrades.  Yes,  he 
was  despicable;  he  was  a  coward! 

All  were  lulled  into  a  sense  of  security  except  Captain 
Fracasse,  who  had  a  set  frown  of  apprehension  which 
came  of  a  professional  knowledge  not  theirs.  Little 
Peterkin,  warmed  by  the  autumn  sunlight,  began  to 
believe  in  his  star.  If  there  were  to  be  a  special  dispen 
sation  providing  shell  craters  and  the  reverse  walls  of 
redoubts  for  him,  he  might  retain  his  reputation  for 
heroism. 

The  sand  still  working  its  way  downward  between 
Pilzer's  bare  skin  and  his  undershirt  irritated  him  to  un 
usual  restlessness  of  ambition  for  glory  and  bronze 


268  THE  LAST  SHOT 

crosses.  He  was  the  strong  man  of  his  company,  now 
that  Eugene  Aronson  was  dead.  He  must  prove  his 
importance.  An  inspiration  made  him  leap  to  his  feet. 
This  brought  his  head  within  a  foot  of  the  top  of  the 
parapet,  with  an  enemy's  rifle  barrel  in  easy  reach. 
Fortunately,  or  unfortunately,  he  was  the  type  who 
must  precede  action  with  a  boast;  a  bite  with  a  growl. 
Let  all  see  that  he  was  about  to  do  a  gallant,  clever 
thing. 

" Watch  me  snatch  that  rifle!"  he  announced. 

"No,  you  don't!  Get  down!"  snapped  Fracasse. 
"We  aren't  inviting  hand-grenades.  It's  a  wonder  that 
we  have  escaped  so  far." 

"Hand-grenades!"  gasped  Peterkin,  going  white. 

But  nobody  observed  his  pallor.  Every  one  else  was 
gasping,  "Hand-grenades!"  under  his  breath;  or,  if  not, 
his  thoughts  were  shrieking,  "Hand-grenades!"  There 
was  a  restless  movement,  a  wistful  look  to  the  rear. 

"Keep  quiet!"  whispered  Fracasse.  "Let  us  hope  it 
isn't  known  that  we're  here." 

They  became  as  still  as  men  of  stone. 

"Well,  if  they  are  going  to  throw  grenades  then  they 
will  throw  them!"  exclaimed  Peterkin  with  the  bravery 
of  fear.  He  must  do  or  say  something  worthy  of  a  hero, 
he  thought,  in  order  to  prove  that  he  was  not  as  scared 
as  he  knew  he  had  looked  and  still  felt. 

"You  have  the  right  sort  of  sang-froid,  Peter  Kinder- 
ling!"  whispered  Fracasse.  "And  you,  Pilzer,  showed  a 
proper  spirit,  too,  if  wrongly  directed." 

Under  cover  of  this  favor,  Peterkin  drew  a  little  out 
of  line,  making  a  great  pretence  of  stretching  his  legs 
and  yawning — yawning  with  a  sincerely  dropped  jaw 
and  a  quivering  lip.  He  pressed  his  chin  against  the 
ground  and  this  stopped  the  quivering.  Also,  he  was 
in  a  position  to  watch  the  parapet  closely  and  to  make  a 
quick  spring. 

Fatalism  had  become  suspense — suspense  without  ac 
tion  to  take  their  minds  off  the  prospect,  the  suspense 


THROUGH  THE  VENEER  269 

of  death  lurking  in  a  cloud  which  might  break  in  a  light 
ning  flash!  They  thought  that  they  knew  the  full 
gamut  of  horrors;  but  nothing  that  they  had  yet  gone 
through  was  any  criterion  for  what  they  now  had  to 
endure.  All  understood  the  nature  of  a  hand-grenade, 
which  bursts  like  a  Nihilist's  bomb.  It  was  as  easy, 
they  knew,  to  toss  hand-grenades  over  the  sand-bags 
into  human  flesh  as  apples  into  a  basket.  They  felt 
themselves  bound  and  gagged,  waiting  for  an  assassin 
to  macerate  them  at  his  own  sweet  will. 

The  second  hour  was  worse  than  the  first,  the  third 
worse  than  the  second.  In  lulls  they  heard  the  voices 
of  Dellarme  and  his  men,  which  seemed  more  ominous 
than  the  crash  of  rifles  or  the  scream  and  crack  of  shells. 
Finally  there  was  a  lull  which  they  knew  meant  the 
supreme  attempt  to  storm  the  position  from  the  town 
side.  They  heard  the  commotion  that  followed  Del- 
larme's  death;  the  sharp,  rallying  commands  of  Feller 
and  Stransky;  and  then,  as  Peterkin  saw  a  black  object 
fly  free  of  a  hand  over  the  parapet  he  made  a  catlike 
spring,  followed  by  another  and  another,  and  plunged 
face  downward  at  the  angle  where  the  face  of  the  re 
doubt  bent  toward  the  town. 

He  thought  that  he  was  dead,  and  found,  as  he  had  in 
the  shell  crater,  that  he  was  not.  After  the  two  explo 
sions  he  heard  groans  that  chilled  his  blood,  and  looked 
around  to  see  living  faces  like  chalk,  with  glassy,  beady, 
protruding  eyes,  and  a  dozen  men  killed  and  eviscerated 
and  mangled  in  bleeding  confusion. 

But  Hugo  and  Pilzer  and  those  of  Peterkin's  immediate 
group  were  alive.  They  were  in  their  places,  while  he 
was  alone  and  out  of  his  place.  He  had  bolted,  while 
they  held  their  ground;  now  he  would  be  revealed  in 
his  true  light.  The  bronze  cross  would  be  lost  before 
it  was  pinned  to  his  breast.  From  where  he  lay,  how 
ever,  he  could  see  the  other  face  of  the  redoubt  and  a 
wedge  of  men  about  to  mount  the  sand-bags.  His  next 
act  was  born  of  the  inspired  cunning  of  his  fear  of  being 


2  70  THE  LAST  SHOT 

exposed,  which  was  almost  as  compelling  as  his  fear  of 
death.  He  waved  his  hand  excitedly  to  the  others  to 
come  on. 

"Charge!  Charge!  This  is  the  way!"  shrieked  Peter- 
kin. 

His  voice  had  the  terror  of  a  man  floating  toward  a 
falls  and  calling  for  a  rope,  but  not  so  to  Fracasse,  to 
whom  it  was  the  voice  of  a  great  chance.  Why  hadn't 
he  thought  of  this  before?  Of  course,  he  should  move 
around  under  cover  of  the  reverse  wall  of  the  redoubt 
to  join  in  the  attack  on  the  weak  point!  The  valet's 
son  had  shown  him  the  way. 

"Come,  men,  come!  Follow  me  and  Peterkin!"  cried 
Fracasse. 

Did  they  follow?  Westerling  or  any  expert  in  the 
psychology  of  war  could  understand  how  ripe  was  their 
mood.  "It  is  the  wait  under  right  conditions  that  will 
make  men  fiends  unleashed  when  the  word  to  storm  is 
given,"  an  older  authority  had  written.  Under  sentence 
of  death  for  six  hours,  they  welcomed  any  opportunity 
to  get  at  grips  with  those  who  had  held  death  suspended 
over  their  heads. 

You  will  use  hand-grenades,  will  you?  Snug  behind 
sand-bags  you  will  tear  the  flesh  of  our  comrades  to 
pieces,  will  you?  They  saw  red,  the  red  of  raw  fragments 
of  flesh;  the  red  of  the  gush  from  torn  artery  walls — all 
except  Hugo  and  Peterkin,  who  might  well  begin  to 
believe  that  there  was  a  measure  of  art  in  heroism. 
Peterkin  seemed  to  share  leadership  at  the  captain's 
side,  but  he  slipped  and  fell — he  had  weak  ankles,  any 
way — as  Fracasse's  men  pressed  the  rear  of  the  wedge 
forward  with  the  strength  of  mass,  only  to  be  borne 
back  by  men,  riddled  with  bullets,  tumbling  fairly  into 
their  faces. 

As  we  have  seen,  there  was  no  getting  through  a 
breach  under  the  concentrated  blasts  of  a  hundred  rifles; 
and  Pilzer,  who,  by  using  human  shoulders  for  steps, 
had  reached  the  parapet,  turned  a  back  somersault  with- 


THROUGH  THE  VENEER  271 

out  his  rifle.  However,  he  seized  one  from  a  dead  man's 
hand  before  the  captain  had  noticed  the  loss.  Some 
of  the  company  joined  in  the  flight  of  the  attackers 
from  the  town  into  the  open,  but  Hugo  and  Pilzer 
and  their  friends  remained  under  cover  of  the  wall. 
They  still  saw  red,  the  red  of  a  darker  anger — that  of 
repulse. 

When,  finally,  they  burst  into  the  redoubt  after  it  was 
found  that  the  Browns  had  gone,  all,  even  the  judge's 
son,  were  the  war  demon's  own.  The  veneer  had  been 
warped  and  twisted  and  burned  off  down  to  the  raw 
animal  flesh.  Their  brains  had  the  fever  itch  of  callouses 
forming.  Not  a  sign  of  brown  there  in  the  yard;  not  a 
sign  of  any  tribute  after  all  they  had  endured!  They 
had  not  been  able  to  lay  hands  on  the  murderous  throwers 
of  hand-grenades.  Far  away  now  was  the  barrack-room 
geniality  of  the  forum  around  Hugo;  in  oblivion  were 
the  ethics  of  an  inherited  civilization  taught  by  mothers, 
teachers,  and  church. 

But  here  was  a  house — a  house  of  the  Browns;  a  big, 
fine  house!  They  would  see  what  they  had  won — this 
was  the  privilege  of  baffled  victory.  What  they  had  won 
was  theirs!  To  the  victor  the  spoils!  Pell-mell  they 
crowded  into  the  dining-room,  Hugo  with  the  rest, 
feeling  himself  a  straw  on  the  crest  of  a  wave,  and  Pilzer, 
most  bitter,  most  ugly  of  all,  his  short,  strong  teeth  and 
gums  showing  and  his  liver  patch  red,  lumpy,  and 
trembling.  In  crossing  the  threshold  of  privacy  they 
committed  the  act  that  leaves  the  deepest  wound  of 
war's  inheritance,  to  go  on  from  generation  to  genera 
tion  in  the  history  of  families. 

"A  swell  dining-room!  I  like  the  chandeliers!" 
roared  Tilzer. 

With  his  bayonet  he  smashed  the  only  globe  left  in 
tact  by  the  shell  fire.  There  was  a  laugh  as  a  shower 
of  glass  fell  on  the  floor.  Even  the  judge's  son,  the  son 
of  the  tribune  of  law,  joined  in.  Pilzer  then  ripped  up 
the  leather  seat  of  a  chair.  This  introductory  havoc 


272  THE  LAST  SHOT 

whetted  his  appetite  for  other  worlds  of  conquest,  as 
the  self-chosen  leader  of  the  increasing  crowd  that  poured 
through  the  doorway. 

" Maybe  there's  food!"  he  shouted.  " Maybe  there's 
wine!" 

"Food  and  wine!" 

"Yes,  wine!    We're  thirsty!" 

"And  maybe  women!  I'd  like  to  kiss  a  pretty  maid 
servant!"  Pilzer  added,  starting  toward  the  hall. 

"Stop!"  cried  Hugo,  forcing  his  way  in  front  of 
Pilzer. 

He  was  like  no  one  of  the  Hugos  of  the  many  parts 
that  his  comrades  had  seen  him  play.  His  blue  eyes  had 
become  an  inflexible  gray.  He  was  standing  half  on  tip 
toe,  his  quivering  muscles  in  tune  with  the  quivering 
pitch  of  his  voice :  a  Hugo  in  anger !  This  was  a  tremen 
dous  joke.  He  was  about  to  regain  his  reputation  as  a 
humorist  by  a  brilliant  display  in  keeping  with  the  new 
order  of  their  existence. 

"We  have  no  right  in  here!  This  is  a  private 
house!" 

But  the  fever  of  their  savagery — the  infectious  sav 
agery  of  the  mob — wanted  no  humor  of  this  kind. 

"Out  of  the  way,  you  white-livered  little  rat!"  cried 
Pilzer,  "or  I'll  prick  the  tummy  of  mamma's  darling!" 

What  happened  then  was  so  sudden  and  unexpected 
in  Hugo  that  all  were  vague  about  details.  They  saw 
him  in  a  catapultic  lunge,  mesmeric  in  its  swiftness,  and 
they  saw  Pilzer  go  down,  his  leg  twisted  under  him  and 
his  head  banging  the  floor.  Hugo  stood,  half  ashamed, 
"half  frightened,  yet  ready  for  another  encounter, 

Fracasse,  entering  at  this  moment,  was  too  intent  on 
his  mission  to  consider  the  rights  of  a  personal  difference 
between  two  of  his  company,  though  he  heard  and  noted 
Pilzer's  growling  complaint  that  he  had  been  struck  an 
unfair  blow. 

"There's  work  to  do!  Out  of  here,  quick!  We  are 
losing  valuable  time!"  he  announced,  rounding  his  men 


THROUGH  THE  VENEER  273 

toward  the  door  with  commanding  gestures.     "We  are 
going  in  pursuit!" 

Marta,  who  had  observed  the  latter  part  of  the  scene 
from  the  shadows  of  the  hall,  knew  that  she  should 
never  forget  Hugo's  face  as  he  turned  on  Pilzer,  while 
his  voice  of  protest  struck  a  singing  chord  in  her  jangling 
nerves.  It  was  the  voice  of  civilization,  of  one  who 
could  think  out  of  the  orbit  of  a  whirlpool  of  passionate 
barbarism.  She  could  see  that  he  was  about  to  spring 
and  her  prayer  went  with  his  leap.  She  gloried  in  the 
impact  that  felled  the  great  brute  with  the  liver  patch 
on  his  cheek,  which  was  like  a  birthmark  of  war. 

After  the  men  were  gone  she  regretted  that  she  had 
not  gone  to  Hugo  and  expressed  her  gratitude.  She 
vaguely  wondered  if  she  should  see  him  again  and  hoped 
that  she  might.  The  two  faces,  Hugo's  and  Pilzer's, 
in  the  instant  of  Hugo's  protest  and  Pilzer's  contempt, 
were  as  clear  as  in  life  before  her  eyes. 

Then  a  staff-officer  appeared  in  the  doorway.  When 
he  saw  a  woman  enter  the  room  he  frowned.  He  had 
ridden  from  the  town,  which  was  empty  of  women,  a 
fact  that  he  regarded  as  a  blessing.  If  she  had  been  a 
maid  servant  he  would  have  kept  on  his  cap.  Seeing 
that  she  was  not,  he  removed  it  and  found  himself  in 
want  of  words  as  their  eyes  met  after  she  had  made  a 
gesture  to  the  broken  glass  on  the  floor  and  the  lacerated 
table  top,  which  said  too  plainly: 

"Do  you  admire  your  work?" 

The  fact  that  he  was  well  groomed  and  freshly  shaven 
did  not  in  any  wise  dissipate  in  her  feminine  mind  his 
connection  with  this  destruction.  He  had  never  seen 
anything  like  the  smile  which  went  with  the  gesture. 
Her  eyes  were  two  continuing  and  challenging  flames. 
Her  chin  was  held  high  and  steady,  and  the  pallor  of 
exhaustion,  with  the  blackness  of  her  hair  and  eyes, 
made  her  strangely  commanding.  He  understood  that 
she  was  not  waiting  for  him  to  speak,  but  to  go. 


274  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"I  did  not  know  that  there  was  a  woman  here ! "  he  said. 

"And  I  did  not  know  that  officers  of  the  Grays  were 
accustomed  to  enter  private  houses  without  invitations!" 
she  replied. 

"This  is  a  little  different,"  he  began. 

She  interrupted  him. 

"But  the  law  of  the  Grays  is  that  homes  should  be 
left  undisturbed,  isn't  it?  At  least,  it  is  the  law  of  civili 
zation.  I  believe  you  profess,  too,  to  protect  property, 
do  you  not?" 

"Why,  yes!"  he  agreed.  He  wished  that  he  could  get 
a  little  respite  from  the  steady  fire  of  her  eyes.  It  was 
embarrassing  and  as  confusing  as  the  white  light  of  an 
impracticable  logic. 

"In  that  case,  please  place  a  guard  around  our  house 
lest  some  more  of  your  soldiers  get  out  of  control,"  she 
went  on. 

"I  can  do  that,  yes,"  he  said.  "But  we  are  to  make 
this  a  staff  headquarters  and  must  start  at  once  to  put 
the  house  in  readiness." 

"General  Westerling's  headquarters?"  she  inquired. 

He  parried  the  question  with  a  frown.  Staff-officers 
never  give  information.  They  receive  information  and 
transmit  orders. 

"I  know  General  Westerling.  You  will  tell  him  that 
my  mother,  Mrs.  Galland,  and  our  maid  and  myself 
are  very  tired  from  the  entertainment  he  has  given  us, 
unasked,  and  we  need  sleep  to-night.  So  you  will  leave 
us  until  morning  and  that  door,  sir,  is  the  one  out  into 
the  grounds." 

The  staff-officer  bowed  and  went  out  by  that  door, 
glad  to  get  away  from  Marta's  eyes.  His  inspection  of 
the  premises  with  a  view  to  plans  for  staff  accommo 
dation  could  wait.  Westerling  would  not  be  here  for 
two  days  at  least. 

"Whew!  What  energy  she  has!"  he  thought.  "I 
never  had  anybody  make  me  feel  so  contemptibly  un 
like  a  gentleman  in  my  life." 


THROUGH  THE  VENEER  275 

Yet  Marta,  returning  to  the  hall,  had  to  steady  herself 
in  a  dizzy  moment  against  the  wall.  .Complete  reaction 
had  come.  She  craved  sleep  as  if  it  were  the  one  true, 
real  thing  in  the  world.  She  craved  sleep  for  the  clarity 
of  mind  that  comes  with  the  morning  light.  In  the 
haziness  of  fleecy  thought,  as  slumber  drew  its  soft 
clouds  around  her,  her  last  conscious  visions  were  the 
pleasant  ones  rising  free  of  a  background  of  horror:  of 
Feller's  smile  when  he  went  back  to  his  automatic  for 
good;  of  Dellarme's  smile  as  he  was  dying;  of  Stran- 
sky's  smile  as  Minna  gave  him  hope;  and  of  Hugo's  face 
as  he  uttered  his  flute-like  cry  of  protest.  In  her  ears 
were  the  haunting  calmness  and  contained  force  of  Lan- 
stron's  voice  over  the  telephone.  She  was  pleased  to 
think  that  she  had  not  lost  her  temper  in  her  talk  with 
the  staff-officer.  No,  she  had  not  flared  once  in  indigna 
tion.  It  was  as  if  she  had  absorbed  some  of  Lanny's  own 
self-control.  Lanny  would  approve  of  her  in  that  scene 
with  an  officer  of  the  Grays.  And  she  realized  that  a 
change  had  come  over  her — a  change  inexplicable  and 
telling — and  she  was  tired — oh,  so  tired!  It  had  been 
exhausting  work,  indeed,  for  one  woman,  though  she  had 
been  around  the  world,  making  war  on  two  armies. 

Meanwhile,  all  too  flushed  with  energy,  the  energy  of 
movement,  to  think  of  the  feud  between  Hugo  and  Pilzer, 
Fracasse's  men  had  sped  along  the  castle  road.  Little 
Peterkin  easily  kept  pace.  There  was  no  danger  in 
pursuit.  In  him  was  the  same  zest  of  the  chase  which 
animated  his  comrades.  They  dropped  down  on  a 
ridge  without  much  regard  to  order.  Before  them,  at 
close  range,  was  a  company  breaking  out  of  close  order 
in  a  sauve-qui-peut  rout  up  a  reverse  slope.  It  was  not 
Dellarme's  company,  but  some  other  that  had  mistaken 
its  direction  and  retired  too  late  and  by  the  wrong  road. 

You  will  throw  hand-grenades,  will  you?  thought  Fra 
casse's  men.  You  will  mangle  our  fellows  when  they 
can't  strike  back,  will  you?  Now  you'll  pay!  Now  it 


276  THE  LAST  SHOT 

is  our  turn!  We  have  seen  our  blood  flow  and  now  yours 
will  flow! 

The  lust  of  the  red  slipped  the  cartridge  clips  into  the 
magazines  and  held  a  true  aim  in  the  mad  delight  of 
slaughter.  No  one  minded,  for  no  one  heard — not  even 
little  Peterkin — the  scattering  bullets  in  return.  They 
had  reached  the  stage  where  the  objective  thought  of 
revenge  wholly  submerged  the  subjective  thought  of 
personal  danger,  which  is  the  mood  of  the  hungry  tiger 
in  the  hunt.  They  were  the  veritable  finished  products 
of  veteran  experience  in  purpose  and  marksmanship. 
Hugo,  too,  was  firing,  but  far  over  the  head  of  every 
target;  firing  like  a  man  in  a  trance  who  needs  some 
deciding  incident  to  bring  him  out  of  it  into  the  part  he 
was  to  play. 

Only  occasional  figures  who  had  not  escaped  over  the 
ridge  were  to  be  seen.  The  fewer  the  targets  the  greater 
the  concentration.  A  whole  company  was  firing  on  a 
dozen  straggling  figures.  But  one — that  one  in  the  pas 
ture — seemed  to  have  a  charmed  life.  The  ground 
around  him  was  peppered  with  dust  spots.  He  had  only 
a  few  yards  more  to  go  to  safety;  yes.  his  head — the  ex 
asperation  of  him! — was  in  line  with  the  crest  before  he 
fell. 

Where  was  there  any  more  prey?  With  ferret  quick 
ness  eyes  swept  the  range  of  vision.  Out  of  an  orchard 
into  the  stubble  of  a  wheat-field  broke  a  panicky  mass; 
a  score  or  more  of  men  who  had  lost  their  officer  and 
their  heads  presumably.  They  were  the  nail  under  the 
hammer,  a  brown  blot,  a  target. 

"Ah!"  a  chorus  of  excited  exclamations  in  greeting  of 
the  game  flushed  from  cover  ran  along  the  line.  Just 
the  way  you  got  our  fellows  with  the  hand-grenades,  we 
will  get  you!  This  was  the  thought,  this  the  prayer 
which  they  saw  being  fulfilled  by  the  glad  medley  of 
their  fire  when  Hugo  Mallin  sprang  up  and  threw  down 
his  rifle  as  if  it  were  something  whose  touch  had  become 
venomous.  He  threw  it  down  with  features  transformed 


THROUGH  THE  VENEER  277 

in  the  uplifting  thought  and  the  relief  of  a  final  resolu 
tion  taken. 

"I  am  through!"  he  cried.  "I  will  not  murder  my 
fellowman  who  has  done  me  no  wrong!  I  cannot,  I 
will  not  kill!" 

Fracasse,  who  was  near  by,  heard  enough  to  under 
stand  the  purport  of  the  declaration,  and  his  recollection 
of  Hugo's  heresy  and  all  the  prejudice  that  he  had 
formed  against  Hugo  and  the  abhorrence  of  Hugo's 
offence  to  the  strict  militarist  brought  a  rush  of  anger  to 
his  brain  as  he  leaped  up  and  drawing  his  sword,  struck 
at  Hugo  with  the  flat  of  it.  He  aimed  for  Hugo's  back, 
but  a  bullet  had  hit  Hugo  in  the  calf  of  his  leg  and,  his 
knees  giving  under  him,  he  received  the  blow  on  the 
head  and  fell  unconscious. 

When  he  came  to  it  was  with  a  twitch  of  pain  in  his 
ribs.  He  saw  the  glowering  faces  of  his  comrades  above 
him  and  realized  that  Piizer  had  given  him  a  kick  which 
expressed  the  general  opinion. 

"Once  ought  to  be  enough  of  that,"  said  the  doctor, 
who  was  bandaging  the  leg,  speaking  to  Piizer. 

Yet  in  the  doctor's  eyes  Hugo  saw  no  favor,  only  the 
humanity  of  his  occupation  of  mercy  to  criminal  and 
king  alike.  But  Hugo  expected  no  favor  and  he  was 
glad  of  what  he  had  done  as  he  swooned  again.  When 
he  came  to  a  second  time,  his  head  aching  with  throbs, 
it  was  with  a  sense  of  falling.  He  found  that  he  was  on 
a  litter  that  had  just  been  set  down.  Evidently  this 
was  by  order  of  the  colonel,  who  was  standing  over 
Hugo  in  the  company  of  some  officers.  All  were  re 
garding  him  as  if  he  were  a  species  of  reptile. 

"  World  anarchist  ideas,  which  is  another  word  for 
treason  or  white  liver,"  observed  the  colonel.  "To 
think  that  it  happened  in  my  regiment!  But  I'll  not 
try  to  cover  it  for  the  regiment's  good  name.  He  will 
get  the  full  measure  of  the  law!" 

"The  placard  is  a  good  idea,"  suggested  an  officer. 

"Yes,  put  on  by  one  of  his  comrades!" 


278  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"The  punishment  of  public  opinion.  It  shows  how 
sound  the  army  is  at  heart." 

Hugo,  lowering  his  glance,  was  able  to  see  a  sheet  of 
note-paper  pinned  to  his  blouse.  It  was  lettered,  but  he 
could  not  make  out  the  words.  Then  he  heard  the  ap 
proach  of  a  galloping  horse,  whose  hoofs  seemed  to  strike 
his  head,  and  heard  the  horse  stop  and  an  orderly  say 
ing  something  about  Company  I  having  got  too  far  for 
ward  into  a  mess  and  the  need  of  litters. 

"We  can  spare  this  one,"  said  the  colonel. 

Hugo  was  rolled  roughly  onto  the  ground  by  the  road 
side  and  left  alone.  He  managed  to  raise  himself  on 
his  elbow  and  saw  that  the  lettering  of  the  placard  was 
' '  Coward ! "  Officers  and  soldiers  and  hospital-corps  men 
called  attention  to  it  as  they  passed.  The  sun  was  very 
hot  and  he  was  growing  feverish.  Painfully  he  dragged 
himself  to  the  shelter  of  a  tree,  and  then,  looking  around, 
saw  that  he  was  near  the  big  house  of  the  terraced  garden. 


XXX 

MARTA  MEETS  HUGO 

THE  general  staff-officer  of  the  Grays,  who  had  tasted 
Marta's  temper  on  his  first  call,  when  he  returned  the 
next  morning  did  not  enter  unannounced.  He  rang 
the  door-bell. 

"I  have  a  message  for  you  from  General  Westerling," 

he  said  to  her.    "The  general  expresses  his  deep  regret  at 

the  unavoidable  damage  to  your  house  and  grounds  and 

has  directed  that  everything  possible  be  done  immedi- 

;  ately  in  the  way  of  repairs." 

In  proof  of  this  the  officer  called  attention  to  a  group 
of  service-corps  men  who  were  removing  the  sand-bags 
from  the  first  terrace.  Others  were  at  work  in  the  garden 
setting  uprooted  plants  back  into  the  earth. 

"His  Excellency  says,"  continued  the  officer,  "that, 
although  the  house  is  so  admirably  suited  for  staff  pur 
poses,  we  will  find  another  if  you  desire." 

He  was  too  polite  and  too  considerate  in  his  attitude 
for  Marta  not  to  meet  him  in  the  same  spirit. 

"That  is  what  we  should  naturally  prefer,"  and  Marta 
bowed  her  head  in  indecision. 

"We  should  have  to  begin  installing  the  telegraph 
and  telephone  service  on  the  lower  floor  at  once,"  he 
remarked.  "In  fact,  all  arrangements  must  be  made 
before  the  general's  arrival." 

"He  has  been  a  guest  here  before,"  she  said  reminis- 
cently  and  detachedly. 

Her  head  dropped  lower,  in  apparent  disregard  of  his 
presence,  as  she  took  counsel  with  herself.  She  was 
perfectly  still,  without  even  the  movement  of  an  eye- 

279 


28o  THE  LAST  SHOT 

lash.  Other  considerations  than  any  he  might  suggest, 
he  subtly  understood,  held  her  attention.  They  were 
the  criterion  by  which  she  would  at  length  assent  or 
dissent,  and  nothing  could  hurry  the  JMarta  of  to-day, 
who  yesterday  had  been  a  creature  of  feverish  impulse. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  that  he  was  watching  that 
wonderful  profile  under  the  very  black  hair,  soft  with 
the  softness  of  flesh,  yet  firmly  carved.  She  lifted  her 
head  gradually,  her  eyes  sweeping  past  the  spot  where 
Dellarme  had  lain  dying,  where  Feller  had  manned  the 
automatic,  where  Stransky  had  thrown  Pilzer  over  the 
parapet.  He  saw  the  glance  arrested  and  focussed  on 
the  flag  of  the  Grays,  which  was  floating  from  a  staff 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and  slowly,  glowingly,  the 
light  rippling  on  its  folds  was  reflected  in  her  face. 

"She  is  for  us!  She  is  a  Gray!'1  he  thought  trium 
phantly.  The  woman  and  the  flag!  The  matter-of- 
fact  staff-officer  felt  the  thrill  of  sentiment. 

"I  think  we  can  arrange  it,"  Marta  announced  with 
a  rare  smile  of  assent. 

"Then  I'll  go  back  to  town  and  set  the  signal-corps 
men  to  work,"  he  said. 

"And  when  you  come  you  will  find  the  house  at  your 
disposal,"  she  assured  him. 

Except  that  he  was  raising  his  cap  instead  of  saluting, 
he  was  conscious  of  withdrawing  with  the  deference  due 
to  a  superior. 

In  place  of  the  smile,  after  he  had  gone,  came  a  frown 
and  a  look  in  her  eyes  as  if  at  something  revolting;  then 
the  smile  returned,  to  be  succeeded  by  the  frown,  which 
was  followed  by  an  indeterminate  shaking  of  the  head. 

The  roar  of  battle  kept  up  its  steady  refrain  in  the 
direction  of  the  range.  Marta  had  heard  it  when  she 
fell  asleep  and  heard  it  when  she  awakened.  A  battery 
of  heavy  guns  of  the  Grays  broke  their  flashes  from  a 
knoll  this  side  of  the  one  where  Dellarme's  men  had 
made  their  first  stand.  At  the  foot  of  the  garden,  where 
yesterday  she  had  distributed  flowers  to  the  wounded 


MARTA  MEETS  HUGO  281 

Browns,  a  regiment  of  Gray  infantry  was  marching  past 
a  train  of  siege-guns.  All  the  figures  moving  on  the 
landscape,  which  yesterday  had  been  brown,  had  changed 
to  gray.  The  Grays  were  masters  of  the  town  and  all 
the  neighborhood. 

Marta  stepped  down  from  the  veranda  in  response  to 
the  call  of  the  open  air  to  physical  vigor  renewed  after 
sweet  sleep.  Rather  than  return  directly  to  the  kitchen, 
where  breakfast  was  waiting,  she  would  go  around  the 
house.  She  stopped  before  a  Japanese  maple  which  had 
been  split  by  a  shell  striking  in  a  crotch.  Was  there 
any  hope  of  saving  it?  No.  She  turned  white  about  the 
lips,  with  red  spots  on  her  cheeks,  and  at  length  nodded 
her  head  as  if  in  answer  to  some  inward  question. 

Over  the  sward,  cut  by  shell  fragments,  lay  torn  limbs 
and  bits  of  bark,  and  in  the  shade  of  a  tree  near  the  road 
she  had  a  glimpse  of  the  shoulder  of  the  gray  uniform  of 
a  prostrate  man.  The  rest  of  him  was  hidden  by  the 
low-hanging  branches  of  one  of  the  Norway  spruces 
which  bordered  the  estate  at  this  point.  Another  step 
and  she  saw  a  circular  red  spot  on  a  white  leg  bandage; 
another,  and  a  white  square  of  paper  pinned  to  a  blouse ; 
another,  and  she  identified  the  wounded  man  as  her  hero 
of  the  scene  in  the  dining-room. 

Hugo's  eyes  were  closed,  his  breaths  slow,  in  restless 
sleep.  His  face,  flushed  with  fever,  was  winningly 
boyish  and  frank.  He  who  had  had  the  courage  to 
speak  alone  against  the  opinion  of  his  fellows,  to  voice 
a  belief  that  made  every  sympathetic  chord  in  her  own 
mind  sing  with  praise  and  understanding,  the  courage  to 
say  that  invasion  was  wrong  even  when  made  by  his 
own  people,  had  been  labelled  coward  and  left  to  die! 

The  exaltation  of  his  features  when  he  had  been  the 
champion  of  her  beliefs  and  her  impulse  against  the  bar 
barism  of  his  comrades  and  the  charm  of  their  resigna 
tion  now,  the  pitifulness  of  his  condition — all  had  an  ap 
peal  as  she  bent  over  him  that  called  for  an  expression 
having  the  touch  of  the  sublimely  feminine.  She  took 


282  THE  LAST  SHOT 

his  hand  in  hers  and  pressed  it  gently.  He  awoke  and 
brought  himself  jerkily  to  a  sitting  posture.  The  effort 
made  a  crash  in  his  head  that  sent  his  senses  swimming. 
She  thought  that  he  was  going  to  swoon  and  slipped  her 
arm  behind  him  in  support  and,  the  Marta  of  impulse, 
pressed  her  lips  to  his  brow.  After  the  first  racking 
throb  of  his  temples  he  was  able  to  steady  himself,  and 
as  she  drew  away  she  saw  his  blue  eyes  starting  in  won 
der  at  her  act. 

"I — I  had  to  do  it  to  thank  you  for  what  you  did  in 
the  dining-room!"  she  stammered. 

"Oh!  Oh!  It  was  very  beautiful  of  you,  but  I 
couldn't  help  being  surprised,  for  it  was  rather  unusual — 
from  a  stranger."  He  smiled,  and  Hugo  had  a  gift  in 
smiles,  as  we  know:  smiles  for  laughter,  smiles  for  reas 
surance,  and  smiles  to  cure  embarrassment.  "It  was 
almost  as  refreshing  as  a  drink  of  water,"  he  concluded 
impersonally. 

"You  are  thirsty?" 

"This — this  is  morning,  isn't  it?"  Hugo  went  on  quiz 
zically. 

"Yes,  yes!" 

"Then  it  must  be  the  next  day,"  he  pursued,  still 
quizzically.  "You  see,  I  said  I  would  not  kill  any  more 
—and  I  will  not — and  I  was  shot  and  got  tagged  with 
out  even  being  shipped  as  freight.  I  was  thirsty  last 
night,  very  thirsty,  and  some  one — I  think  it  was  Jake 
Pilzer — some  one  said  to  go  to  the  fountain  of  hell  for  a 
drink,  but  I — I  don't  think  that  a  very  good  place  to 
get  a  drink,  do  you?" 

Weak  and  faint  as  he  was,  he  put  a  touch  of  drollery 
into  the  question  which  made  her  laugh,  her  eyes  spark 
ling  through  a  moist  haze. 

"You're  real,  aren't  you?"  he  inquired  in  sudden  per 
plexity.  "I'm  not  dreaming?" 

"As  real  as  the  water  I  shall  bring  you." 

Soon  Marta  was  back,  holding  a  glass  to  his  lips. 

"There's  no  doubt  about  it;  you  are  real!"  said  Hugo. 


MARTA  MEETS  HUGO  283 

"I  feel  as  if  the  chimney  were  still  hot  but  that  you  had 
drenched  the  fire  in  the  grate." 

"Who  put  this  on  you?"  she  asked  as  she  unpinned 
the  placard. 

"I've  a  vague  idea,  from  a  vague  overhearing  of  the 
colonel's  remarks,  that  it  is  public  opinion,"  he  replied, 
and  seeing,  that  she  was  about  to  tear  it  up,  he  arrested 
her  action.  "No,  I  think  I'd  like  to  save  it  as  a  souvenir 
— the  odds  are  so  greatly  against  me — as  a  sort  of  sou 
venir  to  keep  up  my  courage." 

His  tone,  the  way  he  drew  the  muscles  of  his  face, 
ironed  out  her  frown  of  disgust  at  public  opinion  with  a 
smile.  For  he  made  his  kind  of  courage  no  less  light- 
hearted  and  free  of  pose  than  Dellarme  had  made  his. 

Directly  the  coachman,  whom  Marta  had  summoned 
when  she  went  for  the  water,  appeared  with  an  im 
provised  litter,  and  the  two  bore  in  at  the  kitchen  door 
a  guest  for  breakfast  whose  arrival  gave  Mrs.  Galland 
a  distinctly  visible  surprise.  His  uniform  was  gray,  and 
in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  hated  gray  as  the  symbol  of 
an  enemy  whom  her  husband  had  fought.  But  when 
Marta  told  the  story  of  the  part  he  had  played  in  de 
fence  of  the  chandelier,  personal  partisanship  abetted 
the  motherly  impulse  that  was  already  breaking  down 
prejudice.  She  was  busy  with  a  dozen  suggestions  for 
his  comfort,  quite  taking  matters  out  of  Marta's  hands. 

"I  know  more  about  the  care  of  the  sick  than  you  do! " 
she  insisted.  "One  lump  or  two  in  your  coffee,  sir? 
There,  there,  you  had  better  let  me  hold  the  cup  for 
you.  You  are  sure  you  can  sit  up?  Then  we  must 
have  a  pillow." 

"I'll  fetch  one  from  the  other  room,"  put  in  Minna. 

"Two  will  be  better!"  Marta  called  after  her. 

"It  is  delightful  to  have  breakfast  in  your  kitchen, 
madame,"  said  Hugo  to  Mrs.  Galland  in  a  way  that 
ought  to  have  justified  her  in  thinking  herself  the  most 
charming  and  useful  person  in  the  world. 


XXXI 

UNTO  C^SAR 

IT  was  more  irritating  than  ever  for  Mrs.  Galland  to 
keep  pace  with  her  daughter's  inconsistencies.  There 
was  a  Marta  listening  in  partisan  sympathy  to  Hugo's 
story  of  why  he  had  refused  to  fight  and  telling  the 
story  of  her  school  in  return.  There  was  a  Marta 
seizing  Hugo's  hand  in  a  quick,  impulsive  grasp  as  she 
exclaimed:  "Your  act  personified  what  I  taught  my 
children!"  There  was  a  Marta  planning  how  he  should 
be  secreted  in  the  coachman's  quarters  over  the  stable, 
where  he  would  be  reasonably  free  from  discovery  un 
til  his  strength  was  regained.  Then  here  was  another 
Marta,  after  Hugo  had  been  carried  away  on  the  litter, 
saying  coolly  to  her  mother: 

"  'Unto  Caesar  the  things  that  are  Caesar's!'  We 
have  our  property,  our  home  to  protect.  Perhaps  the 
Grays  have  come  to  stay  for  good,  so  graciousness  is  our 
only  weapon.  We  cannot  fight  a  whole  army  single- 
handed." 

"You  have  found  that  out,  Marta?"  said  Mrs.  Gal- 
land. 

"We  have  four  rooms  in  the  baron's  tower  and  a 
kitchen  stove,"  Marta  proceeded.  "With  Minna  we 
can  make  ourselves  very  comfortable  and  leave  the  house 
to  the  staff." 

"The  Gallands  in  their  gardener's  quarters!  The 
staff  of  the  Grays  in  ours!  Your  father  will  turn  in  his 
grave!"  Mrs.  Galland  exclaimed. 

"But,  mother,  it  is  not  quite  agreeable  to  think  of 
three  women  living  in  the  same  house  with  a  score  of 
strange  men!"  Marta  persisted. 

284 


UNTO  C^SAR  285 

"I  had  not  thought  of  that,  Marta.  Of  course,  it 
would  be  abominable!"  agreed  Mrs.  Galland,  promptly 
capitulating  where  a  point  of  propriety  was  involved. 

When  Marta  informed  the  officer — the  same  one  who 
had  rung  the  door-bell  on  his  second  visit — of  the  family's 
decision  he  appeared  shocked  at  the  idea  of  eviction 
that  was  implied.  But,  secretly  pleased  at  the  turn  of 
events,  he  hastened  to  apologize  for  war's  brutal  neces 
sities,  and  Marta's  complaisance  led  him  to  consider 
himself  something  of  a  diplomatist.  Yes,  more  than 
ever  he  was  convinced  of  the  wisdom  of  an  invader  ring 
ing  door-bells. 

Meanwhile,  the  service-corps  men  had  continued  their 
work  until  now  there  was  no  vestige  of  war  in  the  grounds 
that  labor  could  obliterate;  and  masons  had  come  to 
repair  the  walls  of  the  house  itself  and  plasterers  to  re 
new  the  broken  ceilings. 

All  this  Marta  regarded  in  a  kind  of  charmed  wonder 
that  an  invader  could  be  so  considerate.  Her  manner 
with  the  officers  in  charge  of  preparations  had  the  sim 
plicity  and  ease  which  a  woman  of  twenty-seven,  who 
is  not  old-maidish  because  she  is  not  afraid  of  a  single 
future,  may  employ  as  a  serene  hostess.  She  frequently 
asked  if  there  were  good  news. 

"Yes,"  was  the  uniform  reply.  An  unexpected  set 
back  here  or  resistance  there,  but  progress,  nevertheless. 
But  she  learned,  too,  that  the  first  two  days'  fighting 
along  the  frontier  had  cost  the  Grays  fifty  thousand 
casualties. 

"In  order  to  make  an  omelet  you  must  break  eggs!" 
she  remarked. 

"Spoken  like  a  true  soldier — like  a  member  of  the 
staff!"  was  the  reply. 

In  her  constraint  and  detachment  they  realized  her 
conscious  appreciation  of  the  fact  that  in  earlier  times 
her  people  had  been  for  the  Browns;  but  in  her  flashes 
of  interest  in  the  progress  of  the  war,  flashes  from  a 
woman's  unmilitary  mind,  they  judged  that  her  heart 


286  THE  LAST  SHOT 

was  with  the  Grays.  And  why  not?  Was  it  not  natural 
that  a  woman  with  more  than  her  share  of  intellectual 
perception  should  be  on  the  right  side?  From  her  as 
sociations  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  she  would  make 
an  outright  declaration  of  apostasy.  This  would  de 
stroy  the  value  and  the  attractiveness  of  her  conversion. 
Reverence  for  the  past,  for  a  father  who  had  fought  for 
the  Browns,  against  her  own  convictions,  made  her  at 
titude  appear  singularly  and  delicately  correct. 

Though  everything  was  ready  for  them,  the  staff  de 
layed  coming  owing  to  the  stubbornness  of  some  heavy 
guns  of  the  Browns,  which,  while  they  had  directed  no 
shells  against  the  house,  had  shown  that  they  had  the 
range  by  unexpectedly  playing  havoc  with  infantry  in 
close  order  on  the  pass  road  at  the  foot  of  the  garden 
and  with  transportation  on  the  castle  road.  But  at 
last  the  battery  was  silenced  and  the  mind  of  the  army 
might  establish  itself  in  its  offices  on  the  ground  floor  and 
its  quarters  on  the  second  floor  without  being  in  danger. 

The  war  was  a  week  old — a  week  which  had  developed 
other  tangents  and  traps  than  La  Tir — on  the  morning 
that  the  first  instalment  of  junior  officers  came  to  oc 
cupy  the  tables  and  desks.  Where  the  family  portraits 
had  hung  in  the  dining-room  were  now  big  maps  dotted 
with  brown  and  gray  flags.  Portable  field  cabinets  with 
sectional  maps  on  a  large  scale  were  arranged  around 
the  walls  of  the  drawing-room.  In  what  had  been  the 
lounging-room  of  the  old  days  of  Galland  prosperity, 
the  refrain  of  half  a  dozen  telegraph  instruments  made 
medley  with  the  clicking  of  typewriters.  Cooks  and 
helpers  were  busy  in  the  kitchen;  for  the  staff  were  to 
live  like  gentlemen;  they  were  to  have  their  morning 
baths,  their  comfortable  beds,  and  regular  meals.  No 
twinge  of  indigestion  or  of  rheumatism  from  exposure 
was  to  interfere  with  the  working  of  their  precious  in 
tellectual  processes.  No  detail  of  assistance  would  be 
lacking  to  save  any  bureaucratic  head  time  and  labor. 
The  bedrooms  were  apportioned  according  to  rank — 


UNTO  C^SAR  287 

that  of  the  master  awaited  the  master;  the  best  ser 
vant's  bedroom  awaited  Francois,  his  valet. 

When  Bouchard,  the  chief  of  intelligence,  who  fought 
the  battle  of  wits  and  spies  against  Lanstron,  came,  two 
hours  before  Westerling  was  due,  the  last  of  the  staff 
except  Westerling  and  his  personal  aide  had  arrived. 
Bouchard,  with  his  iron-gray  hair,  bushy  eyebrows, 
strong,  aquiline  nose,  and  hawk-like  eyes,  his  mouth 
hidden  by  a  bristly  mustache,  was  lean  and  saturnine, 
and  he  was  loyal.  No  jealous  thought  entered  his  mind 
at  having  to  serve  a  man  younger  than  himself.  He 
did  not  serve  a  personality;  he  served  a  chief  of  staff 
and  a  profession.  The  score  of  words  which  escaped  him 
as  he  looked  over  the  arrangements  were  all  of  directing 
criticism  and  bitten  off  sharply,  as  if  he  regretted  that  he 
had  to  waste  breath  in  communicating  even  a  thought. 

"I  tell  nothing,  but  you  tell  me  everything!"  said 
Bouchard's  hawk  eyes.  He  was  old-fashioned;  he  looked 
his  part,  which  was  one  of  the  many  points  of  difference 
between  him  and  Lanstron  as  a  chief  of  intelligence. 

After  he  had  gone  through  the  house  he  went  for  a 
flyspecking  tour  of  the  grounds,  where  he  came  upon  a 
private  of  the  Grays  on  crutches.  With  rest  and  good 
food  the  tiny  hole  in  Hugo's  leg  from  the  merciful  small- 
calibre  bullet  had  healed  rapidly.  Confinement  was  irk 
some  on  a  sunny  day.  He  had  grown  strong  enough  in 
spirit  to  face  his  fate,  whatever  it  might  be,  and  in  the 
absence  of  the  watchful  coachman  he  had  risked  the 
delight  of  a  convalescent's  adventure  in  the  open,  clad 
in  his  uniform,  the  only  clothes  he  had.  Bouchard  saw 
instantly  that  this  private  did  not  wear  the  insignia  of 
staff  service. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  asked. 

"Getting  well  of  a  wound,"  answered  Hugo,  looking 
frankly  into  the  hawk  eyes. 

"Evidently!"  said  Bouchard,  who  was  always  irri 
tated  when  told  what  he  could  see  for  himself.  "Why 
aren't  you  at  a  hospital?" 


288  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"I  was  not  wanted  there!"  said  Hugo. 

"What!  what!"  But  Bouchard  had  wasted  two 
words.  "Your  name  and  regiment?"  he  asked. 

"Hugo  Mallin,  of  the  i28th,"  replied  Hugo. 

"Uh-h!"  Bouchard's  pigeonhole  memory  had  re 
tained  the  name.  "  Charge— mutiny  under  fire;  anarch 
ism!"  he  went  on,  chopping  out  t  the  words  as  if  they 
were  chips  from  a  piece  of  granite.  "Well,  you  have  not 
escaped  trial  by  hiding." 

"I  did  not  flatter  myself  that  with  one  leg  against  a 
whole  army  I  had  much  chance,  sir!"  Hugo  replied  re 
spectfully. 

"Uh-h!"  The  hawk  eyes  flashed  their  disapproval 
of  such  controversial  freedom  of  language  from  a  private. 
Had  he  had  his  way  he  would  have  hanged  Hugo  to 
the  nearest  tree;  for  Bouchard  had  truly  a  mediaeval  soul. 

But  Hugo's  case  was  so  extraordinary  that  it  had 
reached  Westerling's  ears,  and  Bouchard  knew  that 
Westerling  wished  to  see  Hugo  when  he  was  apprehended. 
It  was  not  for  Bouchard  to  consider  this  desire  of  a 
chief  of  staff  to  deal  with  the  case  of  a  private  in  person 
as  singular.  No  request  of  the  chief  of  staff  was  singular 
to  him.  It  became  a  matter  of  natural  law.  He  called 
to  one  of  the  staff  guards  who  was  pacing  back  and  forth 
near  by. 

"Take  this  man  in  charge  and  watch  him  sharply 
until  General  Westerling  sends  for  him!" 

"And  you  will  get  justice  from  General  Westerling!" 
It  was  Marta's  voice.  In  approaching  she  had  unavoid 
ably  overheard  part  of  the  conversation.  "Justice  is 
his  first  characteristic!"  she  added  as  the  hawk  eyes 
turned  their  scrutiny  into  hers,  which  were  calm  and 
smiling. 

Hugo  had  not  seen  Marta  since  he  had  been  carried 
to  the  coachman's  quarters.  Minna  had  visited  him 
frequently,  bearing  inquiries  from  her  mistress  as  well 
as  custards.  He  had  looked  forward  to  a  talk  with 
Marta  as  a  kindred  spirit,  yet  it  was  difficult  for  him  to 


UNTO  C^SAR  289 

reconcile  the  woman  speaking  now  with  the  woman  who 
had  kissed  him  on  the  forehead.  But  he  said  nothing 
as  he  was  marched  away. 

"Miss  Galland!"  exclaimed  Bouchard  in  a  way  that 
said  he  knew  her  story.  "Yes,  that  little  monkey  can 
depend  on  more  justice  than  he  deserves.  The  unan 
swerable  evidence  is  on  the  chief  of  staff's  desk  await 
ing  his  arrival." 

Bouchard's  hawk  eyes  probed  hers  for  an  instant 
longer  and  seemed  to  find  nothing  to  call  further  curi 
osity;  then  he  lifted  his  cap  and  proceeded  with  his 
tour  of  inspection. 

Marta  smiled  thoughtfully  as  she  watched  his  reced 
ing  figure,  while  her  eyelashes  narrowed  and  she  inclined 
her  head  with  a  nod  before  she  moved  away  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  tower.  There  was  almost  complete  silence 
along  the  front.  Since  yesterday's  action,  which  had 
checked  the  guns  commanding  the  range  of  the  house, 
there  had  been  little  firing.  She  guessed  that  the  lull 
was  only  a  recess  of  preparation  for  the  grand  attack  on 
the  first  line  of  permanent  defence,  and  that  probably 
this  would  follow  Westerling's  arrival.  He  was  due  at 
four  o'clock  and  he  would  be  characteristically  prompt 
to  the  minute. 

"It  must  not  be!  Hugo  Mallin  is  too  fine  a  spirit  to 
be  sacrificed.  I'll  go  on  my  knees,  if  need  be,  to  Wester- 
ling,"  Marta  was  thinking  as  she  paced  back  and  forth 
in  her  room.  On  her  knees  to  him!  She  stopped  short, 
struck  in  revolt  with  a  memory  of  the  way  he  had  looked 
at  her  once  as  she  sat  across  the  tea-table  from  him  in 
the  hotel  reception-room.  "No,  I  could  not  endure  that 
except  as  a  last  resort.  If  ever  there  were  a  time  to 
use  all  my  wits  it  is  now — to  save  Hugo  Mallin,  the  one 
soldier  who  acted  out  the  principles  which  I  taught  my 
children!" 


XXXII 
TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN 

As  it  lacked  one  minute  to  four  when  Hedworth 
Westerling,  chief  of  staff  in  name  as  well  as  power  now, 
alighted  from  the  gray  automobile  that  turned  in  at 
the  Galland  drive,  the  chauffeur  thought  well  enough 
of  himself  to  forget  the  crush  of  supplies  and  ambu 
lances  that  had  delayed  His  Excellency's  car  for  at  least 
ninety  seconds  in  the  main  street  of  the  town.  Though 
His  Excellency  had  not  occupied  his  new  headquarters 
as  soon  as  he  expected,  this  could  have  no  influence  on 
results.  If  he  had  lost  fifty  thousand  men  on  the  first 
two  days  and  two  hundred  thousand  since  the  war  had 
begun,  should  he  allow  this  to  disturb  his  well-being  of 
body  or  mind?  His  well-being  of  body  and  mind  meant 
the  ultimate  saving  of  lives. 

The  Grays  were  winning;  this  alone  counted  in  the 
present.  They  would  continue  to  win;  this  alone 
counted  in  the  future.  They  had  won  by  crowding  in 
reserves  till  the  positions  attacked  yielded  to  superior 
strength.  Thus  they  would  continue  to  win  until  the 
last  positions  had  yielded. 

Five  million  mothers'  sons  against  three  million 
mothers'  sons!  Five  to  three  pounds  of  flesh!  Five  to 
three  ounces  of  blood !  With  equal  skill,  superior  strength 
must  always  tell.  Westerling  and  his  staff  were  re 
sponsible  for  the  skill.  If  their  minds  would  work  better 
for  it,  the  nation  could  well  afford  to  feed  them  on 
nightingales'  tongues. 

Confidence  is  the  handmaiden  of  skill.  Confidence  is 

290 


TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN        291 

the  edge  on  the  sword;  confidence  brings  the  final  charge 
that  wins  the  redoubt.  Confidence  was  reflected  in 
Westerling's  bearing  and  in  his  smile  of  command  as  he 
passed  through  the  staff  rooms,  Turcas  and  Bouchard 
in  his  train,  with  tacit  approval  of  the  arrangements. 
Finally,  Turcas,  now  vice-chief  of  staff,  and  the  other 
chiefs  awaited  his  pleasure  in  the  library,  which  was  to 
be  his  sanctum.  On  the  massive  seventeenth-century 
desk  lay  a  number  of  reports  and  suggestions.  Wester- 
ling  ran  through  them  with  accustomed  swiftness  of 
sifting  and  then  turned  to  his  personal  aide. 

"Tell  Francois  that  I  will  have  tea  on  the  veranda." 

From  the  fact  that  he  took  with  him  the  papers  that 
he  had  laid  aside,  subordinate  generals,  with  the  gift  of 
unspoken  directions  which  is  a  part  of  their  profession, 
understood  that  he  meant  to  go  over  the  subjects  re 
quiring  special  attention  while  he  had  tea. 

"Everything  is  going  well — well!"  he  added  in  a  way 
that  said  that  everything  must  be  if  he  said  so  and 
that  he  knew  how  to  make  everything  go  well.  "And 
we  shall  be  up  pretty  late  to-night.  Any  one  who  feels 
the  need  had  better  take  a  nap" — the  implication  being 
that  he  did  not. 

"Well!"  ran  the  unspoken  communication  of  confi 
dence  through  the  staff.  So  well  that  His  Excellency 
was  calmly  taking  tea  on  the  veranda!  For  the  indefati 
gable  Turcas  the  detail;  for  Westerling  the  front  of  Jove. 

"Well!"  The  thrill  of  the  word  was  with  him  in  a 
flight  of  sentiment  as  he  stood  on  that  veranda  where  a 
certain  prophecy  had  been  made  to  a  young  colonel. 
Sight  of  the  rippling  folds  of  the  flag  of  his  country  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  town  prolonged  the  thrill.  His 
eyes  swept  the  pale  horizon  of  the  distances  of  plain  and 
mountain  and  lowered  to  the  garden.  Above  the  second 
terrace  he  saw  a  crown  of  woman's  hair — hair  of  a  jet 
abundance,  radiant  in  the  sunlight  and  shading  a  face 
that  brought  familiar  completeness  to  the  scene. 

He  had  told  Marta  only  two  weeks  ago  that  he  should 


292  THE  LAST  SHOT 

see  her  again  if  war  came;  and  war  had  come.  With  the 
inviting  prospect  of  a  few  holiday  moments  in  which  to 
continue  the  interview  that  had  been  abruptly  concluded 
in  a  hotel  reception-room,  he  started  down  the  terrace 
steps.  Their  glances  met  where  the  second  terrace  path 
ended  at  the  second  terrace  flight ;  hers  shot  with  a  beam 
of  restrained  and  questioning  good  humor  that  spoke  at 
least  a  truce  to  the  invader. 

"You  called  sooner  than  I  expected,"  she  said  in  a 
note  of  equivocal  pleasantry. 

"Or  I,"  he  rejoined  with  a  shade  of  triumph,  the 
politest  of  triumph.  He  was  a  step  above  her,  her  head 
on  a  level  with  the  pocket  of  his  blouse.  His  square 
shoulders,  commanding  height,  and  military  erectness 
were  thus  emphasized,  as  was  her  own  feminine  slight- 
ness. 

"I  want  to  thank  you,"  she  said.  "As  becomes  a 
soldier,  your  forethought  was  expressed  in  action.  It 
was  the  promptness  of  the  men  you  sent  to  look  after  the 
garden  which  saved  the  uprooted  plants  before  they  were 
past  recovery." 

"I  wished  it  for  your  sake  and  somewhat  for  my  own 
sake  to  be  the  same  that  it  was  in  the  days  when  I  used 
to  call,"  he  said  graciously.  "Tea  was  from  four  to 
five,  do  you  remember?  Will  you  join  me?  I  have 
just  ordered  it." 

A  generous,  pleasant  conqueror,  this!  No  one  knew 
better  than  Westerling  how  to  be  one  when  he  chose. 
He  was  something  of  an  actor.  Leaders  of  men  of  his 
type  usually  are. 

"Why,  yes.  Very  gladly!"  she  assented  with  no  un 
due  cordiality  and  no  undue  constraint,  quite  as  if  there 
were  no  war. 

"It  was  the  Browns  who  cut  the  lindens? "  he  suggested 
significantly. 

"They  said  that  it  was  necessary  as  part  of  the  de 
fence,"  she  replied.  "We  shall  plant  new  ones  and  have 
the  pleasure  of  watching  them  grow." 


TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN        293 

Neutrality  could  not  be  better  impersonated,  he 
thought,  than  in  the  even  cleaving  of  her  lips  over  the 
words.  They  seemed  to  say  that  a  storm  had  come 
and  gone  and  a  new  set  of  masters  had  taken  the  place 
of  the  old.  As  they  approached  the  veranda  Francois 
was  placing  the  tea  things. 

" Quite  the  same!  That  was  your  chair,  as  I  re 
member,"  said  Westerling  after  indicating  to  Francois 
that  he  might  go,  "and  this  was  mine." 

But  the  teapot  was  not  Mrs.  Galland's — it  belonged 
to  the  staff. 

"This  is  different,"  observed  Marta,  touching  her 
finger-tip  to  the  coat  of  arms  of  the  Grays  on  the  side 
of  a  cup. 

"Yes,  my  own  field  kit,"  he  answered,  thinking  that 
the  novelty  of  tea  from  a  soldier's  service  had  appealed 
to  her;  for  she  was  smiling. 

"So,  you  being  the  host  and  I  the  guest  now,  why, 
you  pour!"  she  said.  There  was  a  touch  of  brittleness 
in  her  tone — of  half- teasing,  half -serious  brittleness. 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  he  protested  laughingly,  and  found  her 
glance  flashing  through  her  brows  holding  him  fast  in  an 
indefinable  challenge. 

"I  shall  pour  when  you  do  us  the  honor  to  come  to 
tea  at  the  gardener's  quarters  in  the  tower,"  she  said. 

"No,  no!"  he  objected.  "The  tea  conditions  are  the 
same  as  before." 

He  was  earnest  for  his  point.  It  would  please  his 
masculine  fancy  to  watch  those  firm,  small  fingers 
pausing  over  the  cup  before  the  plunge  of  a  lump  of 
sugar  stirred  the  miniature  ocean  in  waves ;  to  watch  the 
firm  little  hand  in  its  grip  of  the  handle  of  the  pot. 

"Conditions  the  same  as  before?"  She  laughed 
softly.  "How  can  they  be  in  my  thoughts  or  yours?" 
she  asked  with  a  sudden  show  of  seriousness. 

"We  did  turn  you  out  of  house  and  home — I  under 
stand!"  he  exclaimed  apologetically.  "And  that  is  the 
symbol  of  it  to  you!"  He  indicated  the  coat  of  arms. 


294  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"The  symbol  of  the  conqueror,  isn't  it?"  he  asked  play 
fully,  for  in  the  company  of  women  it  pleased  him  to  be 
playful. 

"Conqueror?  It's  a  big  word!"  she  mused.  "I 
hadn't  thought  of  it  in  connection  with  pouring  tea"- 
which  might  be  another  way  of  saying  that  she  had  just 
been  thinking  of  it  very  hard  and  might  be  trying  to 
find  whether  it  had  a  pleasant  or  an  unpleasant  side. 
Clearly,  here  was  a  Marta  different  from  any  yet  pre 
cipitated  by  the  alchemy  of  war. 

The  resourceful  variety  of  her!  Oh,  it  was  like  the 
old  days!  It  made  him  feel  young,  as  young  as  when 
he  had  been  a  colonel  commanding  the  garrison  on  the 
other  side  of  the  white  posts.  She  had  intelligence,  yet 
was  at  the  same  time  distinctly  feminine,  with  the  gift 
of  as  much  talk  about  who  should  pour  tea  as  about  how 
to  storm  a  redoubt.  She  did  not  carry  her  mental  wares 
on  her  sleeve.  She  flashed  them  in  a  way  that  prompted 
curiosity  as  to  the  next  exhibit.  He  had  sought  pri 
marily,  selfishly,  to  be  entertained  at  tea,  and  he  was  be 
ing  entertained.  To  want  to  win  was  his  nature.  He 
understood,  too,  that  she  wanted  to  win.  He  liked  that 
quality  in  her  the  more  because  it  heightened  the  value 
of  victory  for  him. 

"Then,  if  you  don't  think  of  it  in  connection  with 
pouring  tea,  let  me  tell  you  what  I  think  of  when  I  sit 
on  this  veranda.  I  think  of  you  as  hostess.  You  re 
fuse  to  play  the  part!"  he  exclaimed  with  that  per 
sistence,  softened  a  little,  perhaps,  yet  suggestive  of  the 
quality  characterized  by  the  firm  jaw  and  still  eyes, 
which  won  his  point  at  staff  councils.  Again  he  was 
conscious  of  one  of  her  sweeping  glances  of  appraisal, 
with  just  a  glint  of  admiration  and  even  approval  tucked 
away  in  the  recesses  of  her  smile. 

"Suppose  we  compromise,"  she  suggested  thought 
fully,  with  the  gravity  of  one  making  a  great  concession. 
"Suppose  you  do  the  heavy  work,  and  pour,  and  I  drop 
the  sugar  in  the  cups." 


TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN        295 

But  Westerling  always  used  a  half  concession  as  a 
lever  to  gain  a  full  concession. 

"I'd  really  better  do  it  all— act  out  the  host  and  the 
conqueror!"  he  declared.  "One  can't  compromise  prin 
ciples." 

"Oh!  Why?"  She  was  distinctly  interested,  leaning 
nearer  to  him  and  playing  a  tattoo  with  one  set  of 
fingers  on  the  back  of  the  other  hand. 

"Anything  except  your  doing  all  the  honors  leaves 
me  in  the  same,  invidious  position,"  he  answered.  "It 
compounds  my  felony.  It  shows  that  you  do  think  that 
we  failed  by  our  conduct  to  show  respect  for  your 
property.  It  leaves  me  feeling  that  you  think  that  I 
do  not  regard  this  as  your  veranda,  your  garden,  your 
home,  sacred  by  more  than  the  laws  of  war — by  an  old 
friendship!" 

He  made  his  appeal  finely,  as  he  well  knew  how  to  do. 
A  certain  magnetic  eloquence  that  went  well  with  his 
handsome  face  and  sturdy  bearing  had  been  his  most 
successful  asset  in  making  him  chief  of  staff. 

The  tattoo  of  her  fingers  died  down  while  she  listened 
to  his  final,  serious  reasons  about  a  subject  that  became 
peculiarly  significant;  and  her  brows  lifted,  her  eyes 
opened  in  the  surprise  of  one  who  gets  a  sudden  new 
angle  of  light. 

"You  put  it  very  well.  In  that  case —  "  she  said,  and 
his  glance  and  hers  dropped,  his  to  the  capable  hand  on 
the  handle  of  the  teapot,  hers  into  the  cup.  "With 
the  honors  of  war  and  officers  permitted  to  retain  their 
side-arms?"  she  asked. 

"Yes;  oh,  yes!"  he  answered  happily. 

She  smiled  her  acknowledgment  with  just  that  self- 
respect  of  capitulation  which  flatters  the  victor  with 
the  thought  that  he  has  overcome  no  mean  opponent — 
the  highest  form  of  compliment  known  to  the  guild  of 
courtiers. 

He  was  susceptible  to  it  and,  in  turn,  to  the  curiosity 
about  her  that  had  remained  unsatisfied  at  the  end  of 


296  THE  LAST  SHOT 

their  talk  in  the  hotel.  Her  own  veranda  was  the  nat 
ural,  familiar  place  to  judge  the  work  of  time  in  those 
character-forming  years  from  seventeen  to  twenty-seven. 
She  was  not  like  what  she  had  been  in  the  artificial  sur 
roundings  of  a  fortnight  ago.  She  filled  the  eye  and  the 
mind  now  in  the  well-knit  suppleness  of  figure  and  the 
finished  maturity  of  features  which  bore  the  mark  of 
inner  growth  of  knowledge  of  life.  She  was  not  a  species 
of  intellectual  exotic,  as  he  had  feared,  too  baffling  to 
allow  the  male  intellect  to  feel  comfortable,  but  very 
much,  as  he  noted  discriminatingly,  a  woman  in  all  the 
physical  freshness  of  a  woman  in  her  prime. 

"Just  like  the  old  days,  isn't  it?"  he  exclaimed  with 
his  first  sip,  convinced  that  the  officers'  commissary  sup 
plied  excellent  tea  in  the  field. 

"Yes,  for  the  moment — if  we  forget  the  war!"  she  re 
plied,  and  looked  away,  preoccupied,  toward  the  land 
scape. 

If  we  forget  the  war!  She  bore  on  the  words  rather 
grimly.  The  change  that  he  had  noted  between  the 
Marta  of  the  hotel  reception-room  and  the  Marta  of  the 
moment  was  not  altogether  the  work  of  ten  years.  It 
had  developed  since  she  was  in  the  capital.  In  these 
three  weeks  war  had  been  brought  to  her  door.  She 
had  been  under  heavy  fire.  Yet  this  subject  of  the  war 
was  the  one  which  he,  as  an  invader,  considered  himself 
bound  to  avoid. 

"We  do  forget  it  at  tea,  don't  we?"  he  asked. 

"At  least  we  need  not  speak  of  it!"  she  replied. 

Safely,  then,  at  first,  their  conversation  ran  not  on 
the  present  but  on  an  intimate  past,  free  of  any  possible 
bumpers.  The  train  of  memories  once  started,  she  her 
self  gave  it  speed  if  it  stopped  at  a  way  station;  cargo  if 
it  went  empty.  Prone  to  avoid  recollections  that  made 
him  feel  old — to  feel  old  was  to  be  out  of  date  in  his 
profession — he  found  these  livening  with  the  youth  of 
thirty-two  and  gratifying  as  youth's  dreams  become 
reality.  Feeling  as  young  as  a  colonel,  he  had  the  con- 


TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN        297 

sciousness  of  being  chief  of  staff.  This  was  enough  to 
make  any  soldier  enjoy  the  place  and  the  company  and 
to  drink  his  tea  slowly  so  as  to  prolong  the  recess  from 
duty.  His  second  cup  growing  cold,  he  was  reminded 
of  the  value  of  time,  and  with  a  playfully  reproachful 
look  at  Marta  he  put  a  warning  finger  of  conscience  on 
the  papers  that  lay  beside  the  bread  plate. 

"  There's  work — always  work  for  a  chief! "  he  declared. 
"I- 

Marta  was  quick  to  act  on  the  hint.  Her  hands  flew 
to  the  arms  of  her  chair  as  she  spoke. 

"There's  always  the  garden  for  me !  But  first —  "  Yes, 
first  there  was  poor  Hugo. 

Westerling  flushed  guiltily  that  she  should  have  taken 
his  words  as  a  hint,  which  was  only  half  of  his  emotion. 
The  other  half  shot  out  his  hand  in  a  restraining,  com 
panionable  touch  on  her  forearm,  while  his  eyes — his 
calculating  gray  eyes — glinted  a  youthful  entreaty. 

" Please!  I  didn't  finish  my  sentence!''  he  begged. 
"You  remember  that  often  I  used  to  wait  after  tea  until 
the  sunset— 

"And  reached  your  quarters  late  for  dinner,  I  also 
remember!"  she  put  in.  But  she  remained  in  the  same 
position,  his  finger-tips  on  her  arm,  her  hands  holding 
her  body  free  of  the  chair.  "That  is,  when  you  did  not 
stay  to  dinner!"  she  added. 

"I  am  staying  to-night.  I  was  going  to  ask  if  you 
wouldn't  remain  on  the  veranda  while  I  go  over  these 
papers.  It — it  would  be  very  cosey  and  pleasant." 

One  of  these  papers,  she  knew,  must  be  the  evidence 
against  Hugo  Mallin.  She  preferred  not  to  make  a 
direct  appeal  but  to  have  Westerling  bring  up  the  sub 
ject  himself.  His  smile  and  the  look  with  which  he 
regarded  her  spoke  his  appreciation  of  the  picture  she 
made  and  his  fear  of  losing  it.  Very  cosey  and  pleasant, 
yes,  the  company  of  a  prophetess,  with  a  ray  of  sunlight 
making  her  hair  an  aurora  of  flashing  bronze  overtopping 
a  brown  face,  the  eyes  holding  answers  to  an  increasing 


298  THE  LAST  SHOT 

number  of  unasked  questions  about  the  new  forces  that 
he  had  found  in  her. 

"Why,  yes,"  she  agreed  with  evident  pleasure,  for 
she  was  thinking  of  Hugo. 

Turcas  now  came,  in  answer  to  Westerling's  ring.  The 
orders  and  suggestions  on  the  table  seemed  to  be  the 
product  of  this  lath  of  a  man,  the  vice-chief,  but  a  lath 
of  steel,  not  wood,  who  appeared  a  runner  trained  for 
a  race  of  intellects  in  the  scratch  class.  One  by  one, 
almost  perfunctorily,  Westerling  gave  his  assent  as  he 
passed  the  papers  to  Turcas;  while  Turcas's  dry  voice, 
coming  from  between  a  narrow  opening  of  the  thin  lips, 
gave  his  reasons  with  a  rapid-firer's  precision  in  answer 
to  his  chief's  inquiries. 

With  each  order  somewhere  along  that  frontier  some 
unit  of  a  great  organism  would  respond.  The  reserves 
from  this  position  would  be  transferred  to  that;  such  a 
position  would  be  felt  out  before  dark  by  a  reconnois- 
sance  in  force,  however  costly;  the  rapid-firers  of  the 
igth  Division  would  be  transferred  to  the  2oth;  despite 
the  37th  Brigade's  losses,  it  would  still  form  the  advance; 
General  So-and-So  would  be  superseded  after  his  failure 
of  yesterday;  Colonel  So-and-So  would  take  his  place  as 
acting  major-general;  more  care  must  be  exercised  in 
recommendations  for  bronze  crosses,  lest  their  value  so 
depreciate  that  officers  and  men  would  lack  incentive 
to  win  them. 

Marta  was  having  a  look  behind  the  scenes  at  the 
fountainhead  of  great  events.  Power!  power!  The 
absolute  power  of  the  soldier  in  the  saddle,  with  premier 
and  government  and  all  the  institutions  of  peace  only 
a  dim  background  for  the  processes  of  war!  Opposite 
her  was  a  man  who  could  make  and  unmake  not  only 
generals  but  even  the  destinies  of  peoples.  By  every 
sign  he  enjoyed  his  power  for  its  own  sake.  There 
must  be  a  chief  of  the  five  millions,  which  were  as  a 
moving  forest  of  destruction,  and  here  was  the  chief, 
his  strength  reflected  in  the  strong  muscles  of  his  short 


TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN        299 

neck  as  he  turned  his  head  to  listen  to  Turcas.  Marta 
recalled  the  contrast  between  Westerling  and  Lanstron 
as  they  faced  each  other  after  the  wreck  of  the  aeroplane 
ten  years  ago:  the  iron  invincibility  of  the  elder's 
sturdy,  mature  figure  and  the  alert,  high-strung  invin 
cibility  of  the  slighter  figure  of  the  younger  man. 

"The  evidence  you  asked  for  in  that  Mallin  mutiny 
case,"  said  Turcas,  indicating  the  only  remaining  paper. 

"Yes,  I  want  to  go  into  that — it's  a  question  of 
policy,"  said  Westerling. 

He  had  taken  up  the  paper  thoughtfully  after  Turcas 
withdrew,  when  he  looked  up  to  Marta  in  answer  to  a 
movement  in  her  chair.  She  had  bent  forward  in  a  pose 
that  freed  her  figure  from  the  chair-back  in  an  outline 
of  suppleness  and  firmness;  her  lips  were  parted,  showing 
a  faint  line  of  the  white  of  her  teeth,  and  he  caught  her 
gazing  at  him  in  a  kind  of  wondering  admiration.  But 
she  dropped  her  eyelids  instantly  and  said  deliberately, 
less  to  him  than  to  herself: 

"You  have  the  gift!" 

No  tea-table  flattery  that,  he  knew;  only  the  reflec 
tion  of  a  fact  whose  existence  had  been  borne  in  on  her 
by  observation. 

'  'The  gift?  How?  "  he  inquired,  speaking  to  the  fringe 
of  hair  that  half  hid  her  lowered  face. 

She  looked  up,  smiling  brightly. 

"You  don't  know  what  gift!  Not  the  pianist's!  Not 
the  poet's!"  (Oh,  to  save  Hugo!  The  method  she  had 
chosen  to  save  him,  alien  to  all  her  impulses,  born  of  the 
war's  stress  on  her  mind,  seemed  the  wise  one  in  view 
of  her  knowledge  of  the  man  before  her.)  "Why,  of 
course,  the  supreme  gift  of  command!  The  thing  that 
made  you  chief  of  staff!  And  the  war  goes  well  for  you, 
doesn't  it?" 

Delicious  morsel,  this,  to  a  connoisseur  in  compliments! 
He  tasted  it  with  the  same  self-satisfied  smile  that  he 
had  her  first  prophecy.  To  her  who  had  then  voiced  a 
secret  he  had  shared  with  no  one,  as  his  chest  swelled 


300  THE  LAST  SHOT 

with  a  full  breath,  he  bared  another  in  the  delight  of  the 
impression  he  had  made  on  her. 

"Yes,  as  you  foresaw — as  I  planned!"  he  said.  "Yes, 
I  planned  all,  step  by  step,  till  I  was  chief  of  staff  and 
ready.  I  convinced  the  premier  that  it  was  time  to 
strike  and  I  chose  the  hour  to  strike;  for  Bodlapoo  was 
only  a  convenient  excuse  for  the  last  of  all  the  steps." 

The  subjective  enjoyment  of  the  declaration  kept 
him  from^any  keen  notice  of  the  effect  of  his  words. 
Lanny  was  right.  It  had  been  a  war  of  deliberate  con 
quest;  a  war  to  gratify  personal  ambition.  All  her  life 
Marta  would  be  able  to  live  over  again  the  feelings  of 
this  moment.  It  was  as  if  she  were  frozen,  all  except 
brain  and  nerves,  which  were  on  fire,  while  the  rigidity 
of  ice  kept  her  from  springing  from  her  chair  in  con 
tempt  and  horror.  She  would  always  wonder  how  the 
bonds  of  her  purpose  to  save  Hugo  held  her  tongue. 
But  still  another  purpose  came  on  the  wings  of  dia 
bolical  temptation  which  would  pit  the  art  of  woman 
against  the  power  of  a  man  who  set  millions  against 
millions  in  slaughter  to  gratify  personal  ambition.  She 
was  thankful  that  she  was  looking  down  as  she  spoke,  for 
she  could  not  bring  herself  to  another  compliment.  Her 
throat  was  too  chilled  for  that  yet. 

"The  one  way  to  end  the  feud  between  the  two  nations 
was  a  war  that  would  mean  permanent  peace,"  he  ex 
plained,  seeing  how  quiet  she  was  and  realizing,  with  a 
recollection  of  her  children's  oath,  that  he  had  gone  a 
little  too  far.  He  wanted  to  retain  her  admiration.  It 
had  become  as  precious  to  him  as  a  new  delicacy  to 
Lucullus. 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  she  managed  to  murmur;  then 
she  was  able  to  look  up.  "It's  all  so  immense!"  she 
added.  "And  you  have  yet  another  paper  there?"  she 
said  with  a  little  gesture  that  might  have  been  taken  as 
the  expression  of  a  hope  that  she  was  not  overstaying 
her  welcome. 

"This  is  very  interesting,"  he  said,  watching  her  nar- 


TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN        301 

rowly  now,  "the  case  of  a  private,  one  Hugo  Mallin, 
who  refused  to  fight  because  he  was  against  war  on 
principle.  Four  charges:  assault  on  a  fellow  soldier, 
cowardice,  treason,  and  insubordination  under  fire." 

" Enough,  I  should  say!"  said  Marta  in  a  low  tone. 

"A  question  of  which  one  to  press — of  an  example," 
continued  Westerling,  reading  the  full  official  statement 
for  the  first  time. 

"What  is  the  punishment?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  of  course,  death!"  he  replied,  somewhat  ab 
sently,  in  preoccupation.  "Extraordinary!  And  they 
have  located  him,  it  seems.  He  is  here  at  headquarters! " 

"Yes;  certainly,"  Marta  said.  "We  found  him  under 
a  tree,  deserted  and  wounded,  labelled  coward,  and  we 
cared  for  him." 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  Westerling.  "He  must  have 
appealed  strongly  to  your  sympathies." 

There  was  no  sharpness  in  the  words,  but  he  had 
lapsed  from  the  personal  to  the  official  manner. 

"To  my  sense  of  humanity!"  Her  reply  was  made  in 
much  the  same  tone  as  his  remark,  where  he  had  ex 
pected  emotion,  even  passion.  More  than  ever  was  he 
certain  that  she  had  undergone  some  revealing  experi 
ence  since  he  had  seen  her  in  the  capital.  "Yes,  to  any 
one's  sense  of  humanity — a  wounded,  thirsty  man  in  a 
fever!"  There  came,  with  a  swift  and  mellowing  charm, 
the  look  of  a  fervent  and  exalted  tenderness  and  the 
pulse-arresting  quiver  of  intensity  that  had  swept  over 
her  at  her  first  sight  of  Hugo  under  the  tree.  "I  know 
that  he  was  not  a  coward  in  one  sense,"  she  added, 
"for  I  saw  him  make  the  assault  named  in  the  first 
charge." 

She  proceeded  with  the  story  of  what  she  had  wit 
nessed  in  the  dining-room.  There  was  no  appeal  on 
Hugo's  account.  Appraising  the  qualities  of  the  Marta 
of  the  moment  in  contrast  with  the  Marta  of  seventeen 
and  the  Marta  of  three  weeks  ago,  Westerling  was  sig 
nificantly  conscious  of  her  attitude  of  impartiality,  free 


302  THE  LAST  SHOT 

of  any  attempt  at  feminine  influence,  and  of  her  evident 
desire  to  help  him  with  the  facts  that  she  knew. 

"The  charge  of  assault  is  only  incidental,"  said  Wester- 
ling.  "But  Mallin  was  in  the  right  about  his  comrades 
entering  the  house;  right  about  the  destruction  of  prop 
erty.  It  is  our  business  to  protect  property,  not  only 
as  a  principle  but  as  a  matter  of  policy.  We  do  not 
desire  to  make  the  population  of  the  country  we  occupy 
unnecessarily  hostile." 

"I  judged  that  from  your  kindness  in  repairing  the 
damage  done  to  ours,"  she  assured  him,  and  added 
happily:  "Though  I  don't  suppose  that  you  go  so  far  in 
most  cases  as  to  set  uprooted  plants  back  in  their  beds." 

"No;  that  is  a  refinement,  perhaps,"  he  answered, 
laughing.  She  was  not  only  more  agreeable  but  also 
more  sane  than  at  the  hotel.  He  liked  the  idea  of  continu 
ing  to  despatch  his  work  while  retaining  her  company. 
"I  must  have  a  talk  with  Mallin,"  he  said.  "I  must 
settle  his  case  so  that  if  similar  cases  arise  subordinates 
will  know  what  to  do  without  consulting  me.  Would 
you  mind  if  I  sent  for  him?"  He  reached  for  the  bell 
to  call  an  orderly. 

"Yes,  I  should  like  to  hear  what  he  says  to  you  and 
what  you  say  to  him,"  she  confessed  with  unfeigned  in 
terest,  which  brought  a  suggestion  that  he  was  to  be 
put  on  trial  before  her  at  the  same  time  as  Mallin  was 
on  trial  before  Westerling.  His  fingers  paused  on  the 
bell  head  without  pressure.  "I  told  him  that  you  were 
a  just  man,"  she  remarked,  "that  any  one  would  be 
certain  of  justice  from  you." 

He  rang  the  bell;  and  after  he  had  sent  for  Mallin, 
warming  under  the  compliment  of  her  last  remark,  he 
dared  a  reconnoissance  along  the  line  of  inquiry  which 
he  had  wanted  to  undertake  from  the  first. 

"Mallin's  ideas  about  war  seem  to  be  a  great  deal 
like  your  own,"  he  hinted  casually. 

"As  I  expressed  them  at  the  hotel,  you  mean!"  she 
exclaimed.  "That  seems  ages  ago — ages!"  The  per- 


TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN        303 

plexity  and  indecision  that,  in  a  space  of  silence,  brooded 
in  the  depths  of  her  eyes  came  to  the  surface  in  wavering 
lights.  "Yes,  ages!  ages!"  The  wavering  lights  grew 
dim  with  a  kind  of  horror  and  she  looked  away  fixedly 
at  a  given  point. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  thrill;  the  thrill  that  always 
presaged  victory  for  him.  He  realized  her  evident  dis 
tress;  he  guessed  that  terrible  pictures  were  moving 
before  her  vision,  and  he  changed  the  subject. 

"I  know  how  revolting  it  must  have  been  to  have  seen 
those  soldiers  wantonly  smashing  your  chandelier  and 
gloating  over  their  mischief,"  he  said.  "Really,  the 
captain  was  to  blame  for  letting  his  men  get  out  of  hand. 
He  seems  not  to  have  been  a  competent  man.  We  can 
train  and  train  an  officer,  but  when  war  comes — well, 
no  amount  of  training  will  supply  a  certain  quality  that 
must  be  inborn — the  quality  of  command." 

"Such  as  Dellarme  had!"  she  exclaimed  absently, 
under  her  breath. 

She  had  forgotten  her  part  and  Westerling's  presence. 
The  given  point  of  her  gaze  was  exactly  where  Dellarme 
lay  when  he  died.  She  was  unconsciously  smiling  in  the 
way  that  he  had  smiled.  But  to  Westerling  it  seemed 
that  she  was  smiling  at  space.  He  was  puzzled;  his  per 
ception  piqued. 

"Who  was  Dellarme?"  he  was  bound  to  ask. 

"The  officer  in  command  of  the  company  of  infantry 
posted  behind  the  sand-bags  in  the  yard — he  was  killed! " 
she  answered,  turning  her  face  toward  Westerling  with 
out  the  smile,  singularly  expressionless. 

"Yes,  he  must  have  had  the  quality  from  the  defence 
he  made,"  agreed  Westerling,  in  the  hearty  tribute  of  a 
capable  soldier  to  a  capable  soldier.  So  very  well  had 
that  one  small  position  been  held  that  every  detail  was 
graven  on  the  mind  of  a  chief  of  staff  who  was  supposed 
to  leave  details  to  his  brigade  commanders.  It  was  he 
himself  who  had  ordered  the  final  charge  after  the  bri 
gade  commander  had  advised  delaying  another  attack 


3o4  THE  LAST  SHOT 

until  the  redoubt  could  be  hammered  to  pieces  by  heavy 
guns  brought  up  from  the  rear.  "But  he  had  to  go!" 
Westerling  exclaimed  doggedly;  for  he  could  not  resist 
this  tribute,  in  turn,  to  his  own  success  in  making  an 
example  for  timid  brigade  commanders  in  the  future  by 
driving  in  more  reserves  until  the  enemy  yielded. 

"Yes!"  she  agreed  without  any  change  in  the  set 
face  and  moody  eyes. 

"You  saw  something  of  the  defence?" 

"Yes!"  Marta  replied  in  a  way  that  aroused  his 
imagination. 

This,  he  recalled,  had  always  been  her  gift.  The 
slow-drawn  monosyllable  was  pregnant  with  revela 
tions  which  his  knowing  mind  could  readily  supply.  She 
had  been  in  the  midst  of  the  fury  of  the  most  tenacious 
fighting  within  a  small  space  that  the  war  had  yet  to 
chronicle.  She  had  been  an  intimate  of  the  splendid 
desperation  of  the  Browns;  known  their  thoughts  and 
feelings.  What  a  multitude  of  impressions  were  stored  in 
her  sensitive  mind,  impressions  which,  for  the  moment, 
seemed  to  benumb  her !  How  she  could  make  them  speak 
from  her  eyes  and  quiver  from  her  very  finger-tips  when 
she  chose!  He  would  yet  hear  her  vivid  account  of  all 
that  she  had  seen.  It  would  be  informatory — a  reflec 
tion  of  the  spirit  of  the  Browns.  Her  quietness  itself 
was  compelling  in  its  latent  strength,  and  strength  was 
the  thing  he  most  admired.  More  and  more  questions 
winged  themselves  into  his  thoughts,  while  his  next  one 
served  the  purpose  of  passing  the  time  until  Hugo  came. 

"There  was  a  man  out  of  uniform,  in  a  gardener's  garb, 
in  charge  of  the  automatic,"  he  remarked.  "It  was  so 
puzzling  that  I  heard  of  it.  You  see,  there  is  no  limit  to 
what  a  chief  of  staff  may  know." 

"Yes,  our  gardener,"  she  replied. 

"Your  gardener!  Why,  how  was  that?  Wasn't  he  in 
the  reserves  if  he  were  a  Brown?  Wasn't  he  called  to 
the  colors  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war?" 

In  spite  of  himself  the  questions  were  somewhat  sharp. 


TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN        305 

They  seemed  to  take  Marta  by  surprise,  which,  however, 
was  evanescent. 

"I  wonder!"  she  said,  as  interested  as  Westerling  in 
the  suggestion.  "  Something  a  soldier  would  think  of 
immediately  and  a  woman  wouldn't.  I  know  that  we 
lost  our  gardener." 

That  was  all.  She  did  not  attempt  any  further  ex 
planation  or  enlarge  on  the  subject,  but  let  it  go  as  an 
inquiry  unexplained  in  the  course  of  conversation. 

Had  Westerling  been  inclined  to  pursue  it  further  he 
would  have  been  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  a  figure 
with  a  bandaged  leg  and  head  which  came  hobbling 
cheerfully  around  the  corner  of  the  house  on  crutches, 
escorted  by  an  infantryman.  The  guard  saluted  and 
withdrew  into  the  background.  Hugo  saluted  and  re 
moved  his  cap  and  looked  at  Westerling  with  the  faint 
est  turn  of  a  smile  on  his  lips,  which  plainly  spoke  his 
quizzical  appreciation  of  the  fact  that  he  was  in  the 
presence  of  dazzling  heights  for  a  private. 

Marta  had  a  single  glance  from  him — a  glance  of 
peculiar  inquiry  and  astonishment,  sweeping  over  the 
tea  things  fairly  into  her  eyes.  Then  it  was  gone.  He 
might  have  been  the  most  dutiful  and  respectful  soldier 
of  the  five  millions  as  he  waited  on  the  head  of  the  five 
millions  to  speak. 

Westerling  read  the  four  charges.  Then  he  asked  the 
stereotyped  question: 

"What  have  you  to  say  to  them?" 

When  he  looked  up  from  the  paper  he  saw  a  face  that 
was  a  mask,  a  gentle,  pleasant  mask,  and  blue  eyes 
looking  quite  steadily  into  his  own  with  a  sort  of  well- 
established  and  dreamy  fatalism. 

"Nothing,  sir,"  said  Hugo  respectfully. 

Westerling  frowned.  Though  a  confession  of  guilt 
simplified  everything,  perhaps  he  frowned  to  find  no 
embarrassment  in  his  presence  in  the  private;  perhaps 
he  apprehended  impertinence  in  the  soft  blue  eyes. 

"You  know  what  that  means — the  charges  sustained? " 


306  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"Yes,  sir!" 

"And  you  have  nothing  to  say?"  Westerling's  frown 
deepened.  There  was  an  undercurrent  of  urgency  in  his 
tone.  This  mild  culprit,  waiting  for  the  wheels  of  jus 
tice  to  roll  over  him  without  a  protest,  gave  him  no  light 
as  to  a  policy  that  should  apply  to  other  cases.  He  re 
sented,  too,  any  suggestion  of  readiness  for  martyrdom. 
No  man  of  power  who  is  anything  of  a  politician  and 
not  a  fool  likes  to  make  martyrs.  "Nothing?"  he  re 
peated.  "Nothing  at  all  in  your  own  behalf?" 

A  faint  expression  appeared  on  the  mask.  So  insis 
tently  could  Hugo's  mask  hold  attention  that  Wester- 
ling  noted  even  a  slight,  thoughtful  drawing  down  of 
the  brow  and  one  corner  of  the  mouth.  He  could  not 
conceive  that  the  laws  of  gravity  could  be  upset  or  that 
a  private  would  undertake  to  have  fun  at  the  expense  of 
a  chief  of  staff. 

"Nothing,  sir,  unless  I  should  make  a  long  speech," 
he  said.  "Do  you  want  me  to  do  that,  sir?" 

Westerling  held  his  irritation  in  control  and  looked 
around  at  Marta.  He  saw  only  wonder  in  her  eyes  as 
she  intently  regarded  Hugo,  which  was  his  own  feeling, 
he  suddenly  realized. 

"I  have  hardly  time  to  listen  to  long  speeches,"  he 
remarked. 

"I  thought  not,  sir,"  replied  Hugo,  unmoved.  "That 
is  why  I  said  I  had  nothing  to  say.  And  in  want  of  a 
long  speech  the  best  that  I  could  do  to  explain  would  be 
to  ask  you  to  read  certain  books." 

An  explosion  of  his  breath  in  astonishment  saved 
Westerling  from  harsh  expletives.  For  one  thing,  he 
was  piqued.  Though  he  would  not  admit  it  even  to 
himself,  he  had,  perhaps,  fancied  the  idea  of  playing 
the  gentle  and  patient  dispenser  of  justice  before  Marta. 
A  private  on  trial  for  the  greatest  of  military  crimes 
seraphically  advising  a  chief  of  staff  to  read  books! 
There  were  not  enough  words  in  the  dictionary  to  rebuke 
the  insubordination  of  such  conceit!  The  only  way  to 


TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN        307 

look  at  the  thing  was  as  a  kind  of  grim  jest.  He  re 
trieved  his  vexation  with  a  laugh  as  he  turned  to  Marta. 

She  was  smiling  irresistibly,  in  concert  with  his  own 
mood,  as  she  continued  to  regard  Hugo.  Hugo's  mask 
was  entirely  for  Westerling.  He  did  not  seem  to  see 
Marta  now,  and  through  his  mask  radiated  the  con 
siderate  understanding  of  one  who  can  put  himself  in 
another's  place — which  was  Hugo's  besetting  fault  or 
virtue,  as  you  choose.  In  short,  the  chief  of  staff  had  a 
feeling  that  this  private  knew  exactly  what  he,  the  chief 
of  staff,  was  thinking. 

"Yes,  I  was  certain,  sir,"  said  Hugo,  "that  you  were 
too  busy  either  to  listen  to  speeches  or  to  read  books. 
You  have  months  of  hard  work  before  you,  sir." 

His  respectful  "sirs"  had  the  deference  of  youth  to  an 
elder;  otherwise,  he  was  an  equal  in  conversation  with 
an  equal.  Westerling  still  kept  his  temper,  but  the  way 
that  his  under  jaw  closed  indicated  that  he  had  made  up 
his  mind. 

"One  charge  is  enough,"  he  said  in  a  businesslike 
fashion.  "On  the  firing-line  you  threw  down  your  rifle. 
You  refused  to  fight  any  more.  You  said:  'Damn  pa 
triotism!  I'm  through!'  Is  that  so?" 

A  slight  flush  shot  into  Hugo's  cheeks;  he  twisted  his 
shoulder  on  his  crutch  as  if  he  had  a  twinge  of  pain, 
but  his  face  did  not  change  its  expression. 

"No,  sir.  I  did  not  say:  'Damn  patriotism!'  I'm 
afraid  Captain  Fracasse  was  out  of  temper  when  he  re 
ported  that.  I  didn't  say,  'Damn  patriotism!'  because 
I  did  not  think  that  then  and  do  not  now.  Would  you 
care  to  have  my  recollection  of  what  I  said?" 

"Yes!"  breathed  Marta  with  so  intent  an  emphasis 
that  Westerling  turned  sharply,  only  to  find  her  smiling 
at  him.  Her  smile  said  that  she  thought  that  Hugo's 
story  would  be  interesting. 

"Yes;  go  ahead!"  said  Westerling. 

"I  think  that  I  can  recall  my  words  very  accurately, 
sir,"  Hugo  proceeded.  "They  were  important  to  me. 


3o8  THE  LAST  SHOT 

I  was  the  individual  most  affected  in  the  matter.  I  said : 
'I  am  through.  I  will  not  murder  my  fellowmen  who 
have  done  me  no  wrong.  I  cannot,  I  will  not  kill ! ' ' 

"That  is  all?"  queried  Westerling,  again  looking  at 
Marta,  this  time  covertly,  while  he  played  with  a  tea 
spoon. 

Brooding  uncertainty  had  flooded  the  sparkle  out  of 
her  eyes.  She  was  statue-like  in  her  stillness,  her  breaths 
impalpable  in  their  softness.  But  the  points  of  her 
knuckles  were  ghostly,  sharp  spots  on  her  tightly 
clenched  hands.  All  that  Westerling  could  tell  was  that 
she  was  thinking,  and  thinking  hard.  There  was  a 
space  of  silence  broken  only  by  the  movement  of  the 
teaspoon.  Hugo  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"I  believe  in  patriotism,  sir.  That  means  love  of 
country.  I  love  my  country,"  he  said  slowly. 

A  preachment  of  patriotism  from  this  nonchalant 
private  was  a  straw  too  much  for  Westerling's  patience. 
He  made  a  nervous  gesture — a  distinctly  nervous  one 
as  he  dropped  the  teaspoon.  He  would  have  an  end  of 
nonsense. 

"You  will  answer  questions!"  he  said.  "First,  you 
dropped  your  rifle?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  refused  to  fight?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  know  the  penalty  for  this?" 

Hugo  inclined  his  head.     He  was  silent. 

"Shot  for  treason — and  immediately!"  Westerling 
went  on,  irritated  at  the  man's  complaisance.  Then  he 
bit  his  lip.  This  was  harsh  talk  before  Marta.  He  ex 
pected  to  hear  her  utter  some  sort  of  protest  against 
such  cruelty,  and  instead  saw  that  her  face  remained 
calm  and  that  there  was  nothing  but  wonder  in  her  eyes. 
She  knew  how  to  wait. 

"Then,  sir,"  said  Hugo,  speaking,  evidently,  because 
he  was  expected  to  say  something,  "I  suppose,  of  course, 
that  I  shall  be  shot.  But" — he  was  smiting  in  the  way 


TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN        309 

that  he  would  when  he  brought  a  "good  one"  to  the 
head  in  the  barracks — "but  it  will  not  be  necessary  to 
do  it  more  than  once,  will  it?  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I 
had  not  counted  on  being  shot  more  than  once." 

Westerling  was  like  a  man  who  had  lunged  a  blow  at 
an  object  and  struck  only  air. 

"I  said  that  he  was  not  a  coward,"  Marta  remarked 
quietly.  There  was  nothing  in  her  manner  to  imply 
that  she  was  defending  Hugo.  She  seemed  to  be  inci 
dentally  justifying  a  previous  observation  of  her  own. 

A  smile  in  face  of  death!  Westerling's  prayer  was  for 
countless  masses  of  infantry  who  would  smile  in  face  of 
death  and  do  his  bidding.  He  could  not  resist  a  sol 
dier's  admiration,  which,  however,  he  would  not  permit 
to  take  the  form  of  words.  The  form  which  it  took  was 
a  sharp  thrust  of  his  fist  into  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  He 
had,  too,  a  sense  of  defeat  which  was  uppermost  as  he 
spoke — a  defeat  that  he  was  bound  to  retrieve. 

"You  have  a  home,  a  father,  and  a  mother?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  perhaps  a  sweetheart?"  Westerling  proceeded. 

Hugo  unmistakably  flushed. 

"I  don't  think,  sir,  that  official  statistics  require 
an  answer  to  that  question.  I" — and  again  that  con 
founded  smile,  as  Westerling  was  beginning  to  regard 
it — "I  trust,  sir,  that  I  shall  not  have  to  be  shot  more 
than  once  if  we  do  not  bring  any  one  not  yet  officially  of 
my  family  into  the  affair." 

"You  do  not  seem  to  like  life,"  Westerling  observed. 

"I  love  life!"  answered  Hugo  earnestly.  "I  try  to 
get  something  out  of  every  minute  of  it;  if  nothing  par 
ticular,  at  least  the  miracle  of  living  and  breathing  and 
thinking  and  seeing — seeing  such  beautiful  scenes  as 
this."  He  looked  away  toward  the  glorious  landscape. 
It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  lifted  the  steady  gaze 
of  those  studious  blue  eyes  from  Westerling,  but  directly 
they  were  back  on  duty.  "It  is  because  I  love  life,"  he 
continued,  "and  think  that  everybody  else  must  love 


3io  THE  LAST  SHOT 

life,  that  I  do  not  want  to  kill.  Because  I  love  my  coun 
try  I  know  that  others  love  their  country,  and  I  want 
them  to  keep  their  country." 

Marta's  glance  had  followed  Hugo's  into  the  distance. 
It  still  rested  there  intently.  To  Westerling  she  showed 
only  a  profile,  with  the  shadow  of  the  porch  between 
them  and  the  golden  light  of  receding  day  in  the  back 
ground:  a  golden  light  on  a  silhouette  of  ivory,  a  sil 
houette  that  you  might  find  without  meaning  or  so  full 
of  meaning  as  to  hold  an  observer  in  a  quandary  as  to 
what  she  was  thinking  or  whether  or  not  she  was  think 
ing  at  all. 

Westerling  had  the  baffled  consciousness  of  fencing 
with  a  culprit  at  the  bar  who  had  turned  adversary. 
It  was  the  visionary's  white  logic  of  the  blue  dome 
against  the  soldier's  material  logic  of  x  equals  initial 
velocity.  Here  was  an  incomprehensible  mortal  who 
loved  life  and  yet  was  ready  to  die  for  love  of  life. 
Here  was  love  of  country  that  refused  to  serve  country. 

All  a  pose,  a  clever  bit  of  acting  to  play  on  his  feel 
ings  through  the  presence  of  a  woman,  Westerling  con 
cluded.  And  Marta  was  still  looking  at  the  landscape. 
Her  mind  seemed  withdrawn  from  the  veranda.  Only 
her  body  remained.  All  the  impulse  of  Westerling's 
military  instinct  and  training,  rebelling  at  an  abstract 
ethical  controversy  with  a  private  about  book  heresies 
that  belonged  under  the  censor's  ban,  called  for  the  word 
of  authority  from  the  apex  of  the  pyramid  to  put  an  end 
to  talk  with  an  atom  at  the  base.  But  that  profile — 
that  serene  ivory  in  the  golden  light,  so  unlike  the  Marta 
of  the  hotel  reception-room — was  compellingly  present 
though  her  mind  were  absent.  It  suggested  loss  of  temper 
as  the  supreme  weakness.  He  had  permitted  a  con 
troversy.  He  must  argue  his  man  down;  he  must  find 
his  adversary's  weak  point. 

"Your  province  is  one  of  the  most  patriotic,"  he  said. 
"Its  people  are  of  the  purest  blood  of  our  race.  They 
have  always  been  loyal.  They  have  always  fought  de- 


TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN        311 

terminedly.  To  no  people  would  a  traitor  be  so  abhor 
rent.  Do  you  want  the  distinction  of  being  a  traitor — 
one  lone  traitor  in  your  loyal  province?" 

Hugo  was  visibly  affected.  The  twisted  corner  of  his 
mouth  quivered. 

"I  had  thought  of  that,  too,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Suppose  your  father  and  mother  knew  that  your 
comrades  had  labelled  you  a  coward  before  the  whole 
army;  that  they  had  thought  you  worthy  only  of  kicks 
and  to  be  left  to  die  by  the  roadside.  Suppose  that  your 
father  and  mother  knew  that  the  story  of  Hugo  Mallin, 
coward  and  traitor,  who  threw  down  his  rifle  under  fire 
is  being  told  throughout  the  land — as  I  shall  have  it 
told — until  your  name  is  a  symbol  for  cowardice  and 
treason.  How  would  your  father  and  mother  feel?" 

There  was  an  unsteady  movement  of  Hugo's  body  on 
his  crutches.  He  swallowed  hard,  moistening  dry  lips; 
and  the  mobility  of  feature  that  could  change  the  mask 
into  the  illumination  of  varied  emotions  spoke  horror 
and  asked  for  pity. 

"I — I — as  a  matter  of  mercy,  when  I  have  admitted 
the  charge,  I  ask  you  not  to  bear  on  that,  sir!"  he  stam 
mered.  Then  the  crutches  creaked  with  a  stronger 
grip  of  his  hands  and  a  stiffening  of  his  body  as  he 
mastered  his  feelings.  The  mask  recovered  its  own, 
even  to  the  drawing  down  of  the  corner  of  the  mouth. 
"I  have  reasoned  that  all  out,  sir,"  he  went  on.  "It 
was  the  thing  which  kept  me  from  throwing  down  my 
rifle  before  we  made  our  first  charge.  I  have  written  a 
letter  to  my  father  and  mother." 

Marta  had  been  so  engrossed  in  the  landscape  that  she 
seemed  not  to  have  been  listening.  It  was  her  voice, 
come  out  of  the  distance,  that  asked,  without  any  in 
flection  except  that  of  tense  curiosity: 

"May  we  see  the  letter?" 

As  she  turned  her  eyes  looked  directly  into  Hugo's, 
their  gaze  locked,  as  it  were:  hers  that  of  a  simple  re 
quest,  his  that  of  puzzled,  unsatisfied  scrutiny. 


312  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"May  we?"  she  repeated  to  Westerling,  looking  now 
frankly  at  him,  "though  I  don't  know  as  it  is  in  keeping 
with  the  situation  or  with  your  wishes  to  grant  the  whim 
of  a  woman.  But  you  see,"  she  added  smiling,  "that  is 
what  comes  of  having  a  woman  present." 

If  she  had  any  double  meaning  Westerling  could  not 
find  it  in  her  eyes. 

"I  am  willing,"  said  Hugo.  "Indeed,  I  shall  be  very 
glad  to  have  my  side  heard." 

"Yes,  let  us  see  the  letter,"  assented  Westerling;  for 
he,  too,  was  curious. 

When  Hugo  had  given  it  to  Westerling  and  he  saw 
that  it  was  not  very  long,  he  began  reading  aloud: 

"  'I've  kept  very  well  and  cheerful  and  I'm  cheerful 
now/  "  the  letter  began.  "  'Please  always  think  of  me 
as  cheerful.  Everybody  in  our  company  has  fought 
well;  just  as  bravely  as  our  forefathers  did  in  the  wars 
of  their  day.'  ' 

"Which  hardly  agrees  with  your  ideas,"  observed 
Westerling. 

"Exactly,  sir.  Men  should  be  brave  for  their  con 
victions,"  answered  Hugo.  "And,  as  you  said,  the  men 
of  our  province  are  loyal  to  the  old  ideas.  They  be 
lieve  they  ought  to  fight  the  Browns." 

Then  followed  a  brief,  intimate,  appealing  story  of 
how  each  of  his  dead  comrades  had  fallen. 

"  'You  can  read  these  to  their  folks  at  home,  if  you 
want  to.  They  might  like  to  know.' ' 

Irresistibly  there  crept  into  Westerling's  face  at  these 
recitals  of  soldierly  courage  the  satisfaction  of  the  com 
mander  with  the  spirit  of  his  men.  Here  was  proof  of 
the  valor  of  the  units  of  his  army. 

"  'Now  I  have  something  to  tell  you  which  will  hurt 
you  very  much/  "  Westerling  read  on,  "  'but  you  must 
recollect  that  I  was  always  regarded  as  a  little  queer. 
And  I  don't  think  people  will  hold  you  to  blame  on  my 
account.  I  hope  they  will  sympathize  with  you  for 
having  such  a  son.  You  will  have  heard  the  story  from 


TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN        313 

the  men  of  the  company,  but  I  also  want  to  tell  it  to 
you.  .  .  .'" 

After  it  was  told  the  letter  proceeded: 

"  'I  feel  that  I  was  a  coward  up  to  the  moment  that 
everybody  else  was  calling  me  a  coward.  Then  I  felt 
free  and  happy,  as  if  I  had  been  true  to  myself.  I  felt 
that  I  had  been  just  as  much  in  the  wrong  as  if  we  should 
break  into  our  neighbor's  house  and  take  his  property 
because  we  were  stronger  than  he.  How  would  you  feel 
if  a  neighbor  entered  your  house  and  made  it  his  own? 
You  would  call  in  the  police.  But  what  if  there  were 
no  police?  Would  that  make  it  right? ' ' 

Marta's  own  opinions!  The  spirit  of  her  children's 
prayer!  Head  bent,  hands  clasped,  she  was  simply 
listening. 

"  *  Would  it  be  cowardice  if  one  of  the  neighbor's 
family  said,  "I  will  not  take  any  further  part  in  this 
robbery!"  when  he  saw  you,  mother,  weeping  over  you, 
father,  as  you  lay  dead  after  trying  to  defend  your  house? 
When  I  was  asked  to  fire  at  those  running  men  it  was 
like  standing  on  a  neighbor's  door-step  and  firing  down 
the  street  at  my  neighbors  in  flight.  I  could  not  do  it. 
I  could  not  do  it  though  twenty  million  men  were  doing 
the  same  thing.  No,  I  could  not  do  it  any  more 
than  you  could  commit  murder,  father.  That  is  all. 
Perhaps  when  those  who  survive  from  my  company 
come  home,  after  they  have  been  beaten,  as  they  will 

"What!"  Westerling  exploded. 

All  the  force  of  his  being  had  to  take  umbrage  at  this. 
Beaten!  Marta  saw  the  rigid,  unyielding  Westerling 
who  had  cried,  "We  shall  win!"  when  she  made  her  sec 
ond  prophecy.  But  the  comparison  did  not  occur  to 
him.  Nothing  occurred  to  him  but  red  anger,  until  the 
first  dart  of  reason  warned  him,  a  chief  of  staff,  that  a 
private  had  made  him  completely  lose  his  temper.  He 
recovered  his  poise  with  a  laugh  and  without  even  glanc 
ing  at  Marta. 


314  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"Well,  we  might  as  well  hear  the  reasons  for  your 
expert  opinion,"  he  said,  his  satire  a  trifle  hoarse  after 
the  strain  of  his  emotion. 

" Because  the  Browns  fight  for  their  homes! "  answered 
Hugo.  "When  the  great  crisis  comes  they  have  a 
reserve  strength  that  we  have  not:  conscience,  the  in 
telligent  conscience  of  this  age  that  cannot  fool  itself 
with  false  enthusiasm  continually.  They  are  fighting 
as  I  should  pray  that  I  might  fight  if  the  Browns  in 
vaded  our  country;  as  I  might  fight  against  a  murderous 
burglar.  For  I  will  fight,  sir,  I  will  fight  with  my  face 
to  the  white  posts,  but  not  with  my  back  to  them !  The 
Browns  have  no  more  right  to  cross  our  frontier  than  we 
have  to  cross  theirs!" 

There  was  a  perceptible  shudder  on  Marta's  part, 
an  abrupt,  tossing  elevation  of  her  head.  She  stared  at 
the  spot  where  Dellarme  had  lain  in  the  garden.  Del- 
larme's  smile  was  back  on  her  lips;  it  seemed  graven  there. 
Her  eyes,  which  Westerling  could  not  see,  were  leaping 
flames. 

"I'm  afraid  you  will  not  have  the  chance,"  Westerling 
observed,  as  he  returned  the  letter  to  Hugo,  its  reading 
unfinished.  "What  if  every  man  held  your  views? 
What  would  become  of  the  army  and  the  nation?"  he 
demanded. 

"Why,  I  think  I  have  made  that  plain,"  replied 
Hugo,  He  appeared  no  less  weary  than  Westerling  over 
continual  beating  of  the  air  to  no  purpose.  "We 
should  retreat  to  our  own  soil,  where  we  belong." 

"And  you  are  ready  to  be  shot  for  that  principle?" 

The  question  was  sharp  and  final. 

"Yes,  if  being  shot  for  what  I  did  is  dying  for  it — 
though  I  prefer  to  live  for  it!"  said  Hugo,  still  without 
any  pose.  He  refused  to  play  for  a  chapter  in  the  future 
book  of  martyrs  to  peace.  This  was  the  irritating  thing 
about  him  to  a  soldier,  who  deprecated  all  kinds  of 
personal  bravado  and  show  as  against  the  efficiency  of 
the  modern  military  machine,  when  men  were  supposed 


TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN        315 

to  respond  to  duty  in  the  face  of  death  as  automatically 
as  in  any  business  requiring  team-work,  with  an  every 
day  smile  like  Hugo's  on  their  lips. 

"Then,"  Westerling  began,  and  broke  off  abruptly. 
His  eyes  sought  Marta. 

The  affair  seemed  to  have  worn  on  her  nerves  also. 
There  was  a  distinctly  appreciable  effort  at  self-control 
in  the  slow  way  that  she  turned  her  head.  The  flame  in 
her  eyes  was  suddenly  suffused  in  a  liquid  glance  which 
slowly  brightened  with  a  suggestion. 

"It  is  extraordinary!"  she  breathed.  "Don't  you 
think  that  the  blow  on  his  head  and  the  fever  afterward 
has  something  to  do  with  it?" 

Hugo  answered  for  himself. 

"My  views  are  the  same  as  they  were  before  the  blow 
and  the  act  that  brought  the  blow! "  he  said,  with  a  slight 
cast  of  the  eye  toward  Marta  which  intimated  that  he 
wanted  no  help  from  the  deserter  of  the  principles  which 
she  had  professed  to  him  previously. 

She  shuddered  as  if  hurt,  but  only  momentarily. 

"Psychological,  I  suppose — psychological  and  ir 
responsible  abnormality!"  she  murmured,  avoiding 
Hugo's  look  and  bending  her  own  on  Westerling  per 
sistently. 

"Long  words!"  said  Hugo.     "Insanity  is  shorter." 

But  Westerling  did  not  seem  to  hear.  His  thought 
was  shaped  by  the  superb  misery  and  sensitiveness  in 
Marta's  face.  He  had  done  wrong  to  ask  her  to  remain. 
Of  course  the  scene  had  been  painful  to  her.  She  would 
not  be  herself  if  she  wanted  to  see  a  man  tried  for  his 
life.  He  knew  that  views  not  unlike  Hugo's  were  latent 
in  many  minds  lacking  Hugo's  initiative  that  would  re 
spond  to  the  right  impulse.  A  way  out  occurred  to  him 
as  inspiration,  which  pleased  his  sense  of  craft.  The 
press,  which  the  premier  reported  was  irritated  by  his 
censorship — the  press  which  must  have  sensation,  the 
traffic  of  its  trade — should  have  a  detailed  account  of 
how  one  of  our  indomitable  regiments  placarded  a 


316  THE  LAST  SHOT 

private  as  coward,  proving  thereby  that  the  army  was  a 
unit  of  aggressive  zeal. 

"You  are  alone — one  man  in  a  million  in  your  ideas!" 
he  declared,  with  judicial  gravity.  "We  shall  postpone 
your  trial  and  leave  public  opinion  to  punish  you.  Your 
story  will  be  given  to  the  press  in  full;  your  name  will 
be  a  byword  throughout  the  land,  an  example;  and  while 
you  are  convalescing  you  will  remain  a  prisoner.  When 
you  are  well  we  shall  have  another  talk.  I  may  give  you 
a  chance,  for  the  sake  of  your  father  and  mother  and 
your  sweetheart  and  the  good  opinion  of  your  neigh 
bors,  to  redeem  yourself." 

"I  had  to  tell  you  what  I  felt,  sir,"  said  Hugo.  "Thank 
you  for  letting  me  live,  after  you  knew." 

He  saluted  and  turned  away.  Marta  and  Westerling 
watched  him  as  he  hobbled  around  the  corner  of  the 
house  and  in  a  heavy  silence  listened  to  the  crunch  of 
his  crutch  tips  on  the  gravel  growing  fainter.  Her 
lashes,  those  convenient  curtains  for  hiding  thought, 
dropped  as  Westerling  looked  around;  but  he  saw  that 
her  lips  had  reddened  and  that  she  was  drawing  a  long, 
deep,  energizing  breath.  When  the  lashes  lifted,  there 
was  still  wonder  in  her  eyes — wonder  which  had  become 
definite  tribute  to  him.  The  assurance  he  wanted  was 
that  he  had  borne  himself  well,  and  he  had  it. 

"You  kept  your  patience  beautifully,"  she  told  him. 
"It  seems  to  me  that  you  were  both  kind  and  wise." 

"How  I  was  to  be  merciful  against  the  facts  puzzled 
me,"  he  replied,  "until  you  saved  the  day  with  your 
suggestion  of  psychological  irresponsibility." 

"Then  I  helped?    I  really  helped?" 

"You  did,  decidedly!  You—  There  he  broke  off, 
for  he  found  himself  speaking  to  her  profile. 

She  had  looked  away  in  a  sudden  flight  of  abstraction, 
very  far  away,  where  the  lowering  sun  was  stretching 
the  shadows  of  the  foot-hills  toward  the  white  posts. 
Capes  and  pillars  and  promontories  of  shadow  there  in 
the  distance!  Swinging,  furry  finger-points  of  shadow 


TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN        317 

from  the  tall  hollyhocks  in  the  garden  swaying  with  the 
breeze!  The  dark  shade  of  the  house's  mass  over  the 
yard! 

It  was  time  for  him  to  be  at  his  desk.  But  she  seemed 
far  from  any  suggestion  of  going.  She  seemed  to  expect 
him  to  wait;  otherwise  he  might  have  concluded  that 
she  had  forgotten  his  presence.  Yet  were  he  to  rustle 
a  paper  he  knew  that  she  would  hear  it.  Though  she 
did  not  change  her  position  in  the  chair,  she  appeared 
subtly  active  in  every  fibre. 

He  found  waiting  easy,  free  as  he  was  to  watch  the 
beauty  of  her  profile  in  the  glory  of  the  sunset.  The 
superb  thing  about  her  was  that  she  always  called  for 
study.  Her  lips  moved  in  sensitive  turns;  her  breast 
rose  in  soft  billows  with  her  breaths;  the  long,  flickering 
eyelashes  ran  outward  from  black  to  bronze  and  to 
feather  tips  of  gold.  In  time  measured  by  the  regular 
standard  of  clock  ticks,  which  in  the  brain  may  either 
race  madly  or  drag  mercilessly,  she  was  not  long  silent. 
When  she  spoke  she  did  not  look  entirely  around  at 
first;  he  had  no  glimpse  into  her  eyes. 

"It  was  another  experience  of  war/'  she  said  moodily, 
returning  to  the  subject  of  Hugo.  "Yes,  something  like 
the  final  chapter  of  experience,  the  trial  of  this  dreamer." 
Then  a  wave  of  restless  impatience  with  her  abstrac 
tion  swept  over  her.  Speaking  of  dreamers,  she  herself 
would  stop  dreaming.  "For  experience  does  make  a 
great  difference,  doesn't  it?"  she  exclaimed  with  a  sad, 
knowing  smile.  After  a  perceptible  pause  her  eyes 
suddenly  glowed  into  his.  All  the  commotion  of  her 
thought  was  galvanized  into  purpose  in  the  look.  "I 
have  had  a  heart  full  and  a  mind  full  of  experiences!" 
she  said.  "I  have  been  close  to  war — closer  than  you! 
I  have  looked  on  while  others  fought!" 

The  thing  was  coming!  He  should  hear  the  story  of 
the  change  that  war  had  wrought  in  her.  She  appeared 
to  regard  him  as  the  one  listener  whom  she  had  sought; 
as  a  confidant  who  alone  could  understand  her.  His 


318  THE  LAST  SHOT 

gift  for  listening  was  in  full  play  as  he  relaxed  and 
settled  back  in  his  chair,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand 
lest  he  should  seem  to  stare.  For  in  his  eagerness  he 
would  not  miss  any  one  of  her  varied  signals  of  emotion. 

She  was  as  vivid  as  he  knew  that  she  would  be,  her 
narration  flashes  of  impression  in  clear  detail.  Her  being 
seemed  transparent  to  its  depths  and  her  moods  through 
the  last  week  to  run  past  him  in  review.  He  marvelled 
at  times  at  her  military  knowledge;  again  at  her  im 
partiality.  She  was  neither  for  the  Browns  nor  the 
Grays;  she  was  simply  telling  what  she  had  seen. 
She  passed  by  some  horrors;  on  others  she  dwelt  with 
fearless  emphasis. 

"Then  the  hand-grenades  were  thrown!"  She  put 
her  hands  over  her  eyes.  "As  they  fell" — she  put  her 
hands  over  her  ears — "oh,  the  groans!" 

"It  was  the  Browns  who  started  it!"  he  interjected 
in  defence.  "I  had  hoped  that  we  should  escape  that 
kind  of  warfare."  He  was  too  intent  to  recall  what  he 
had  said  to  the  premier  about  using  every  known  method 
of  destruction. 

"And  this  is  only  the  beginning,  isn't  it?"  she  asked 
piteously,  exhausted  with  her  story. 

"Only  the  beginning!"  he  agreed. 

Again  brooding  wonder  appeared  in  her  eyes,  while 
there  was  wonder  in  his  eyes — wonder  at  her. 

"And  you  remain  with  your  property!"  he  exclaimed 
in  a  burst  of  admiration. 

Once  more  she  was  looking  away  into  the  distance; 
once  more  he  was  studying  her  profile.  He  knew  that 
she  had  gone  through  her  experience  without  tears  and 
without  a  scream.  She  had  been  subjected  to  his  final 
test  of  all  merit — war.  Courage  she  had,  feminine 
courage.  And  he  had  often  asked  himself  what  would 
happen  if  he,  a  great  man,  should  ever  meet  a  great 
woman.  He  was  baffled  by  the  resources  of  a  mind 
that  was  held  in  detachment  under  her  charm;  baffled 
as  to  what  she  was  thinking  at  that  moment,  only  to  find 


TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN        319 

her  smiling  at  him,  the  wonder  in  her  eyes  resolving  it 
self  into  purpose. 

"  You  see,  I  have  been  very  much  stirred  up,"  she  said 
half  apologetically.  "There  are  some  questions  I  want 
to  ask — quite  practical,  selfish  questions.  You  might 
call  them  questions  of  property  and  mercy.  The  longer 
the  war  lasts  the  greater  will  be  the  loss  of  life  and  the 
misery?" 

"Yes,  for  both  sides;  and  the  heavier  the  expense  and 
the  taxes." 

"If  you  win,  then  we  shall  be  under  your  flag  and  pay 
taxes  to  you?" 

"Yes,  naturally." 

"The  Browns  do  not  increase  in  population;  the  Grays 
do  rapidly.  They  are  a  great,  powerful,  civilized  race. 
They  stand  for  civilization!" 

"Yes,  facts  and  the  world's  opinion  agree,"  he  replied. 
Puzzled  he  might  well  be  by  this  peculiar  catechism. 
He  could  only  continue  to  reply  until  he  should  see  where 
she  was  leading. 

"And  your  victory  will  mean  a  new  frontier,  a  new 
order  of  international  relations  and  a  long  peace,  you 
think?  Peace — a  long  peace!" 

Was  there  ever  a  soldier  who  did  not  fight  for  peace? 
Was  there  ever  a  call  for  more  army-corps  or  guns  that 
was  not  made  in  the  name  of  peace?  He  had  his  ready 
argument,  spoken  with  the  forcible  conviction  of  an  ex 
pert. 

"This  war  was  made  for  peace — the  only  kind  of 
peace  that  there  can  be,"  he  said.  "My  ambition,  if 
any  glory  comes  to  me  out  of  this  war,  is  to  have  later 
generations  say:  'He  brought  peace!" 

Though  the  premier,  could  he  have  heard  this,  might 
have  smiled,  even  grinned,  he  would  have  understood 
Westerling's  unconsciousness  of  inconsistency.  The  chief 
of  staff  had  set  himself  a  task  in  victory  which  had  no 
military  connection.  Without  knowing  why,  he  wanted 
to  win  ascendancy  over  her  mind. 


320  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"The  man  of  action!"  exclaimed  Marta,  her  eyes 
opening  very  wide,  as  they  would  to  let  in  the  light  when 
she  heard  something  new  that  pleased  her  or  gave  food 
for  thought.  "The  man  of  action,  who  thinks  of  an 
ideal  as  a  thing  not  of  words  but  as  the  end  of  action!" 

"Exactly!"  said  Westerling,  sensible  of  another  of 
her  gifts.  She  could  get  the  essence  of  a  thing  in  a  few 
words.  "When  we  have  won  and  set  another  frontier, 
the  power  of  our  nation  will  be  such  in  the  world  that  the 
Browns  can  never  afford  to  attack  us,"  he  went  on. 
"Indeed,  no  two  of  the  big  nations  of  Europe  can  afford 
to  make  war  without  our  consent.  We  shall  be  the  ar 
biters  of  international  dissensions.  We  shall  command 
peace — yes,  the  peace  of  force,  of  fact!  If  it  could  be 
won  in  any  other  way  I  should  not  be  here  on  this  ve 
randa  in  command  of  an  army  of  invasion.  That  was 
my  idea — for  that  I  planned."  He  was  making  up  for 
having  overshot  himself  in  his  confession  that  he  had 
brought  on  the  war  as  a  final  step  for  his  ambition. 

"You  mean  that  you  can  gain  peace  by  propaganda 
and  education  only  when  human  nature  has  so  changed 
that  we  can  have  law  and  order  and  houses  are  safe  from 
burglary  and  pedestrians  from  pickpockets  without 
policemen?  Is  that  it?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  yes!  You  have  it!  You  have  found  the  wheat 
in  the  chaff." 

"Perhaps  because  I  have  been  seeing  something  of 
human  nature — the  human  nature  of  both  the  Browns 
and  the  Grays  at  war.  I  have  seen  the  Browns  throwing 
hand-grenades  and  the  Grays  in  wanton  disorder  in  our 
dining-room  directly  they  were  out  of  touch  with  their 
officers!"  she  said  sadly,  as  one  who  hates  to  accept 
disillusionment  but  must  in  the  face  of  logic. 

Westerling  made  no  reply  except  to  nod,  for  a  move 
ment  on  her  part  preoccupied  him.  She  leaned  forward, 
as  she  had  when  she  had  told  him  he  would  become  chief 
of  staff,  her  hands  clasped  over  her  knee,  her  eyes  burn 
ing  with  a  question.  It  was  the  attitude  of  the  prophecy. 


TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN        321 

But  with  the  prophecy  she  had  been  a  little  mystical; 
the  fire  in  her  eyes  had  precipitated  an  idea.  Now  it 
forged  another  question. 

" And  you  think  that  you  will  win?  "  she  asked.  "You 
think  that  you  will  win?"  she  repeated  with  the  slow 
emphasis  which  demands  a  careful  answer. 

The  deliberateness  of  his  reply  was  in  keeping  with 
her  mood.  He  was  detached;  he  was  a  referee. 

"Yes,  I  know  that  we  shall.  Numbers  make  it  so, 
though  there  be  no  choice  of  skill  between  the  two 
sides." 

His  tone  had  the  confidence  of  the  flow  of  a  mighty 
river  in  its  destination  on  its  way  to  the  sea.  There  was 
nothing  in  it  of  prayer,  of  hope,  of  desperation,  as  there 
had  been  in  Lanstron's  "We  shall  win!"  spoken  to  her 
in  the  arbor  at  their  last  interview.  She  drew  forward 
slightly  in  her  chair.  Her  eyes  seemed  much  larger  and 
nearer  to  him.  They  were  sweeping  him  up  and  down  as 
if  she  were  seeing  the  slim  figure  of  Lanstron  in  con 
trast  to  Westerling's  sturdiness;  as  if  she  were  measur 
ing  the  might  of  the  five  millions  behind  him  and  the 
three  millions  behind  Lanstron.  She  let  go  a  half- 
whispered  "Yes!"  which  seemed  to  reflect  the  conclusion 
gained  from  the  power  of  his  presence. 

"Then  my  mother's  and  my  own  interests  are  with 
you — the  interests  of  peace  are  with  you!"  she  declared. 

She  did  not  appear  to  see  the  sudden,  uncontrolled 
gleam  of  victory  in  his  eyes;  for  now  she  was  looking 
fixedly  at  the  point  where  Hugo  had  stood.  By  this 
time  it  had  become  a  habit  for  Westerling  to  wait  silently 
for  her  to  come  out  of  her  abstractions.  To  disturb  one 
might  make  it  unproductive. 

"Then  if  I  want  to  help  the  cause  of  peace  I  should 
help  the  Grays!" 

The  exclamation  was  more  to  herself  than  to  him. 
He  was  silent.  This  girl  in  a  veranda  chair  desiring  to 
aid  him  and  his  five  million  bayonets  and  four  thousand 
guns!  Quixote  and  the  windmills — but  it  was  amazing; 


322  THE  LAST  SHOT 

it  was  fine!  The  golden  glow  of  the  sunset  was  run 
ning  in  his  veins  in  a  paean  of  personal  triumph.  The 
profile  turned  ever  so  little.  Now  it  was  looking  at 
the  point  where  Dellarme  had  lain  dying.  Westerling 
noted  the  smile  playing  on  the  lips.  It  had  the  quality 
of  a  smile  over  a  task  completed — Dellarme's  smile. 
She  started;  she  was  trembling  all  over  in  the  resistance 
of  some  impulse — some  impulse  that  gradually  gained 
headway  and  at  last  broke  its  bonds. 

"For  I  can  help — I  can  help!"  she  cried  out,  turning 
to  him  in  wild  indecision  which  seemed  to  plead  for 
guidance.  "It's  so  terrible — yet  if  it  would  hasten 
peace — I — I  know  much  of  the  Browns'  plan  of  de 
fence!  I  know  where  they  are  strong  in  the  first  line 
and — and  one  place  where  they  are  weak  there — and  a 
place  where  they  are  weak  in  the  main  line!" 

"You  do!"  Westerling  exploded.  The  plans  of  the 
enemy!  The  plans  that  neither  Bouchard's  saturnine 
cunning,  nor  bribes,  nor  spies  could  ascertain!  It  was 
like  the  bugle-call  to  the  hunter.  But  he  controlled 
himself.  "Yes,  yes!"  He  was  thoughtful  and  guarded. 

"Do  you  think  it  is  right  to  tell?"  Marta  gasped 
half  inarticulately. 

"Right?  Yes,  to  hasten  the  inevitable — to  save 
lives!"  declared  Westerling  with  deliberate  assurance. 

"I— I  want  to  see  an  end  of  the  killing!  I—  She 
sprang  to  her  feet  as  if  about  to  break  away  tumul- 
tuously,  but  paused,  swaying  unsteadily,  and  passed 
her  hand  across  her  eyes. 

"We  intend  a  general  attack  on  the  first  line  of  de 
fence  to-night!"  he  exclaimed,  his  supreme  thought 
leaping  into  words. 

"And  you  would  want  the  information  about  the 
first  line  to-night  if — if  it  is  to  be  of  service?" 

"Yes,  to-night!" 

Marta  brought  her  hands  together  in  a  tight  clasp. 
Her  gaze  fluttered  for  a  minute  over  the  tea-table. 
When  she  looked  up  her  eyes  were  calm. 


TEA  ON  THE  VERANDA  AGAIN        323 

"It  is  a  big  thing,  isn't  it?"  she  said.  "A  thing  not 
to  be  done  in  an  impulse.  I  try  never  to  do  big  things 
in  an  impulse.  When  I  see  that  I  am  in  danger  of  it  I 
always  say :  '  Go  by  yourself  and  think  for  half  an  hour ! ' 
So  I  must  now.  In  a  little  while  I  will  let  you  know  my 
decision." 

Without  further  formality  she  started  across  the  lawn 
to  the  terrace  steps.  Westerling  watched  her  sharply, 
passing  along  the  path  of  the  second  terrace,  pacing 
slowly,  head  bent,  until  she  was  out  of  sight.  Then  he 
stood  for  a  time  getting  a  grip  on  his  own  emotions 
before  he  went  into  the  house. 


XXXIII 
IN  FELLER'S  PLACE 

WHAT  am  I?  What  have  I  done?  What  am  I  about 
to  do?  shot  as  forked  shadows  over  the  hot  lava-flow  of 
Marta's  impulse.  The  vitality  that  Westerling  had  felt 
by  suggestion  from  a  still  profile  rejoiced  in  a  quicken 
ing  of  pace  directly  she  was  out  of  sight  of  the  veranda. 
All  the  thinking  she  had  done  that  afternoon  had  been 
in  pictures;  some  saying,  some  cry,  some  groan,  or  some 
smile  went  with  every  picture. 

Coming  to  the  arbor  she  slowed  down  for  a  step  or 
two,  arrested  by  the  recollection  of  her  last  meeting 
with  Lanstron.  There  it  was  that  she  had  scored  him 
for  making  her  an  accomplice  of  trickery.  She  saw  his 
twitching  hand,  and  the  misery  in  his  eyes  and  the 
cadence  of  his  words  came  as  clearly  as  notes  from  a 
violin  in  a  silent  chamber  to  her  ears.  She  nodded  in 
affirmation;  she  shook  her  head  in  negation;  she  frowned; 
she  laughed  strangely,  and  hurried  on. 

The  sitting-room  of  the  tower  was  empty  to  other 
eyes  but  not  to  hers.  In  imagination  she  saw  Feller 
standing  by  the  table  in  the  dejection  of  his  heart 
break  when  he  faced  her  and  Lanstron,  his  secret  dis 
closed;  and  the  appeal  was  more  potent  in  memory 
than  it  had  been  at  the  time.  She  went  on  into  the 
bedroom,  which  had  been  formerly  the  tool-room.  On 
the  threshold  of  the  steps  into  the  darkness  she  glanced 
back,  to  see  Feller's  face  transfixed  as  it  had  been  when 
he  discovered  the  presence  of  interlopers — transfixed  in 
fighting  rage. 

The  lantern  was  in  the  corner  at  hand.  Only  yester- 

324 


IN  FELLER'S  PLACE  325 

day,  in  want  of  occupation,  as  she  thought,  she  had 
cleaned  the  chimney  and  trimmed  the  wick.  It  seemed 
as  if  Lanny's  fingers  were  lighting  it  now;  as  if  he 
were  leading  the  way  as  he  had  on  her  first  visit  to  the 
telephone.  After  her  hastening  steps  had  carried  her 
along  the  tunnel  to  the  telephone,  she  set  down  the 
lantern  and  pressed  the  spring  that  opened  the  panel 
door.  Another  moment  and  she  would  be  embarked  on 
her  great  adventure  in  the  finality  of  action.  That  little 
ear-piece  became  a  spectre  of  conscience.  She  drew  back 
convulsively  and  her  hands  flew  to  her  face;  she  was  a 
rocking  shadow  in  the  thin,  reddish  light  of  the  lantern. 

Conscious  mind  had  torn  off  the  mask  from  subcon 
scious  mind,  revealing  the  true  nature  of  the  change  that 
war  had  wrought  in  her.  She  who  had  resented  Feller's 
part — what  a  part  she  had  been  playing!  Every  word, 
every  shade  of  expression,  every  telling  pause  of  ab 
straction  after  Westerling  confessed  that  he  had  made 
war  for  his  own  ends  had  been  subtly  prompted  by  a 
purpose  whose  actuality  terrified  her. 

Her  hypocrisy,  she  realized,  was  as  black  as  the  wall 
of  darkness  beyond  the  lantern's  gleam.  All  her  pic 
tures  became  a  whirling  involution  of  extravaganza  and 
all  the  speeches  of  the  characters  of  the  scenes  a  kind  of 
wail.  Then  this  demoralization  passed,  as  a  nightmare 
passes,  with  Westerling's  boast  again  in  her  ears.  She 
was  seeing  Hugo  Mallin;  hearing  him  announce  his 
principles  in  sight  of  the  spot  where  Dellarme  had  died: 

"I  love  my  country.  .  .  .  But  I  know  that  other  men 
love  theirs.  .  .  .  Men  should  be  brave  for  their  convic 
tions.  .  .  .  The  Browns  are  fighting  for  their  homes. 
.  .  .  They  are  fighting,  as  I  should  want  to  fight,  against 
murder  and  burglary.  ...  I  will  fight  with  my  face  to 
the  white  posts,  but  not  with  my  back  to  them." 

She  was  seeing  the  faces  of  her  children ;  she  was  hear 
ing  them  repeat: 

"But  I  shall  not  let  a  burglar  drive  me  from  my  house. 
If  an  enemy  tries  to  take  my  land  I  shall  appeal  to  his 


326  THE  LAST  SHOT    , 

sense  of  justice  and  reason  with  him;  but  if  he  then  per 
sists  I  shall  fight  for  my  home." 

When  war's  principles,  enacted  by  men,  were  based 
on  sinister  trickery  called  strategy  and  tactics,  should 
not  women,  using  such  weapons  as  they  had,  also  fight 
for  their  homes?  Marta's  hands  swept  down  from  her 
eyes;  she  was  on  fire  with  resolution. 

Forty  miles  away  a  bell  in  Lanstron's  bedroom  and 
at  his  desk  rang  simultaneously.  At  the  time  he  and 
Partow  were  seated  facing  each  other  across  a  map  on 
the  table  of  the  room  where  they  worked  together. 
No  persuasion  of  the  young  vice-chief,  no  edict  of  the 
doctors,  could  make  the  old  chief  take  exercise  or 
shorten  his  hours. 

"I  know.  I  know  myself!"  he  said.  "I  know  my 
duty.  And  you  are  learning,  my  boy,  learning!" 

Every  day  the  flabby  cheeks  grew  pastier  and  the 
pouches  under  the  eyebrows  heavier.  But  there  was  no 
dimming  of  the  eagle  flashes  of  the  eyes,  no  weakening 
of  the  will.  Last  night  Lanstron  had  turned  as  white  as 
chalk  when  Partow  staggered  on  rising  from  the  table, 
the  veins  on  his  temples  knotted  blue  whip-cords.  Yet 
after  a  few  hours'  sleep  he  reappeared  with  firm  step, 
fresh  for  the  fray. 

The  paraphernalia  around  these  two  was  the  same  as 
that  around  Westerling.  Only  the  atmosphere  of  the 
staff  was  different.  It  had  a  quality  of  sober  and 
buoyant  alertness  and  fatality  of  determination  rather 
than  rigid  confidence.  Otherwise,  there  was  the  same 
medley  of  typewriters  and  telegraph  instruments,  the 
same  types  of  busy  officers  and  clerks  that  occupied  the 
Galland  house.  To  them,  at  least,  war  had  brought  no 
surprises.  Its  routine  was  as  they  had  anticipated  it 
there  in  the  big  division  headquarters  building,  disso 
ciated  from  the  actual  experience  of  the  intimate  emo 
tions  of  the  front.  Each  man  was  performing  the  part 
set  for  him.  No  man  knew  much  of  any  other  man's 


IN  FELLER'S  PLACE  327 

part.  Par  tow  alone  knew  all,  and  Lanstron  was  trying 
to  grasp  all  and  praying  that  Partow's  old  body  should 
still  feed  his  mind  with  energy.  Lanstron  was  thinner 
and  paler,  a  new  and  glittering  intensity  in  his  eyes. 

A  messenger  had  just  brought  in  two  despatches  from 
the  telegraph  room.  One  was  from  the  taciturn  press 
bureau  of  the  Grays  which  flashed  into  the  Browns' 
headquarters  from  a  neutral  country  at  the  same  time 
that  it  flashed  around  the  world  to  illumine  bulletin- 
boards  in  every  language  of  civilization.  Day  after  day 
the  Grays  had  announced  the  occupation  of  fresh  posi 
tions.  This  was  the  only  news  that  they  had  permitted 
egress — the  news  which  read  like  the  march  of  victory 
to  the  eager  world  of  the  press,  hastening  to  quick  con 
clusions.  To-day  came  the  official  word  that  Westerling 
had  established  his  headquarters  on  conquered  territory. 
Proof,  this,  that  five  could  drive  back  three;  that  the 
weak  could  not  resist  the  strong! 

"Hm-m — indeed!"  exclaimed  Partow,  lifting  his  brow 
into  massive,  corrugated  wrinkles.  "It  may  affect  the 
stock  market,  but  not  the  result." 

The  other  despatch  was  also  out  of  the  land  of  the 
Grays,  but  not  by  Westerling's  consent  or  knowledge. 
By  devious  ways  it  had  broken  through  the  censorship 
of  the  frontier  in  cunning  cipher.  It  told  of  artillery 
concentrations  three  days  old;  it  told  only  what  the 
aeroplanes  had  already  seen;  it  told  what  the  Grays  had 
done  but  nothing  of  what  they  intended  to  do. 

When  word  of  Feller's  defection  came,  Lanstron  re 
alized  for  the  first  time  by  Partow's  manner  that  the 
old  chief  of  staff,  with  all  his  deprecation  of  the  tele 
phone  scheme  as  chimerical,  had  grounded  a  hope  on  it. 

"There  was  the  chance  that  we  might  know — so  vital 
to  the  defence — what  they  were  going  to  do  before  and 
not  after  the  attack,"  he  said. 

Yet  the  story  of  how  Feller  yielded  to  the  temptation 
of  the  automatic  had  made  the  nostrils  of  the  old  war- 
horse  quiver  with  a  dramatic  breath,  and  instead  of  the 


328  THE  LAST  SHOT 

command  of  a  battery  of  guns,  which  Lanstron  had 
promised,  the  chief  made  it  a  battalion.  He  had  drawn 
down  his  brows  when  he  heard  that  Marta  had  asked 
that  the  wire  be  left  intact;  he  had  shot  a  shrewd, 
questioning  glance  at  Lanstron  and  then  beat  a  tattoo 
on  the  table  and  half  grinned  as  he  grumbled  under  his 
breath : 

"She  is  afraid  of  being  lonesome!    No  harm  done!" 
A  week  had  passed  since  the  Grays  had  taken  the 
Galland  house,  and  still  no  word  from  Marta.    The  ring 
of  the  bell  brought  Lanstron  to  his  feet  with  a  startled, 
boyish  bound. 

"Very  springy,  that  tendon  of  Achilles!"  muttered 
Partow.  "And,  my  boy,  take  care,  take  care!"  he 
called  suddenly  in  his  sonorous  voice,  as  vast  and  bil 
lowy  as  his  body.  "Take  care!  She  might  unwittingly 
repeat  something  you  said — and  hold  on!"  He  was 
amazingly  light  and  vigorous  on  his  feet  as  he  rose  and 
hurried  after  Lanstron  with  the  quick,  short  steps  of 
active  adiposity.  "She  may  have  seen  or  heard  some 
thing.  Ask — ask  what  is  the  spirit  of  the  staff,  of 
the  soldiers  who  have  fought?  What  is  the  truth  about 
their  losses?  What—  He  broke  off  at  the  door  of 
Lanstron's  bedroom.  Lanstron  had  flung  aside  a  bath 
robe  that  covered  a  panel  door  in  the  closet  and  already 
had  the  receiver  in  his  hand.  "But  you  know  what  to 
ask!''  concluded  Partow.  A  flush  of  embarrassment 
crept  into  the  pasty  cheeks  and  a  sparkle  into  his  fine 
old  eyes  as  he  withdrew  to  acquit  himself  of  being  an 
eavesdropper. 

It  was  Marta's  voice  and  yet  not  Marta's,  this  voice 
that  beat  in  nervous  waves  over  the  wire. 

"Lanny — yes,  I,  Lanny!  You  were  right.  Wester- 
ling  planned  to  make  war  deliberately  to  satisfy  his 
ambition.  He  told  me  so.  The  first  general  attack  on 
the  first  line  of  defence  is  to-night.  Westerling  says 
so!"  She  had  to  pause  for  breath.  "And,  Lanny,  I 


IN  FELLER'S  PLACE  329 

want  to  know  some  position  of  the  Browns  which  is 
weak — not  actually  weak,  maybe,  but  some  position 
where  the  Grays  expect  terrible  resistance  and  will  not 
find  it — where  you  will  let  them  in!" 

"In  the  name  of — Marta!     Marta,  what 

"I  am  going  to  fight  for  the  Browns — for  my  home!" 

In  the  sheer  satisfaction  of  explaining  herself  to  her 
self,  of  voicing  her  sentiments,  she  sent  the  pictures  which 
had  wrought  the  change  moving  across  the  screen  before 
Lanstron's  amazed  vision.  There  was  no  room  for  inter 
ruption  on  his  part,  no  question  or  need  of  one.  The  wire 
seemed  to  quiver  with  the  militant  tension  of  her  spirit. 
It  was  Marta  aflame  who  was  talking  at  the  other  end; 
not  aflame  for  him,  but  with  a  purpose  that  revealed 
all  the  latent  strength  of  her  personality  and  daring. 

"Yes,  the  only  way  is  to  fight  for  your  home,"  she 
concluded.  "Otherwise,  the  world  would  be  to  the  bully 
and  the  heads  of  saints  and  philosophers  and  teachers 
would  be  egg-shells  under  his  bludgeon." 

"It  seems,"  said  Lanstron,  "that  this  is  almost  like 
my  own  view." 

He  was  sorry  before  the  words  were  fairly  out  of  his 
mouth  that  he  had  taken  that  tack.  It  was  asking  her 
to  back  down  abruptly  from  her  old  principles,  which 
only  the  weak  proselyte  will  do  readily;  and  she  was  not 
a  proselyte  at  all,  to  her  conception. 

"No,  no!"  She  etched  her  reply  into  his  mind  with 
acid.  "My  profession  is  peace;  it  is  not  war.  I  am 
caught  with  my  back  to  the  wall.  If  the  Browns  lose, 
the  Gray  flag  floats  over  my  home.  As  Westerling  says, 
everybody  must  take  orders  from  the  Grays  then.  Oh, 
the  mockery  of  his  repairing  the  damage  done  to  our 
house  and  grounds!  Let  him  repair  the  damage  done 
to  fathers  and  mothers  by  bringing  their  sons  sacri 
ficed  to  the  ambition  for  conquest  back  to  life!  Oh,  I 
got  the  whole  of  him  reflected  in  the  mirror  of  himself 
this  afternoon  when  he  was  comfortably  taking  tea,  and 
in  no  danger,  and  sending  men  to  death!" 


330  THE  LAST  SHOT 

There  Lanstron  winced  over  a  characterization  that 
might  apply  to  him.  He  could  think  of  only  one  thing 
that  would  ever  heal  the  wound.  Perhaps  the  chance 
for  it  would  come  some  day. 

"Yes,"  she  went  on,  " sitting  there  so  comfortably 
and  serenely  and  deciding  that  a  man  who  was  ready  to 
die  for  his  convictions  must  be  shot  for  cowardice !  My 
views  are  like  Hugo  Mallin's  and  my  back  is  against  the 
wall.  But  to  the  work,  Lanny!  I  have  a  half-hour  in 
which  to  make  up  my  mind" — she  laughed  curiously  as 
she  repeated  the  phrase — "in  which  to  make  up  my 
mind."  Briefly  she  recounted  what  about:  "I  want  to 
give  him  positive  information  of  a  weak  point  that  can 
be  taken  easily." 

"But,  Marta — Marta — have  you  considered  what  a 
terrible  risk — what —  J  he  protested,  the  chief  of  intel 
ligence  now  submerged  in  the  man. 

"No  more  than  for  Feller.  I  sent  Feller  away  and  I 
am  taking  his  place.  How  is  he?  Did  he  get  his 
guns?" 

"Yes,  not  a  battery,  but  a  battalion — a  major's 
command — and  the  iron  cross,  too!" 

"Splendid!  Oh,  I'd  like  to  see  him  in  uniform  di 
recting  their  fire!  How  happy  he  must  be!  But,  are 
you  going  to  do  your  part?  Are  you  going  to  give  me 
the  information?" 

"I  shall  have  to  ask  Partow.     It's  a  pretty  big  thing." 

"Yes — only  that  is  not  all  my  plan,  my  little  plan. 
After  they  have  taken  the  first  line  of  defence — and  they 
will  get  it,  won't  they?" 

"Yes,  we  shall  yield  in  the  end,  yield  rather  than 
suffer  too  great  losses  there  that  will  weaken  the  defence 
on  the  main  line." 

"Then  I  want  to  know  where  it  is  that  you  want 
Westerling  to  attack  on  the  main  line,  so  that  we  can 
get  him  to  attack  there.  That— that  will  help,  won't  it?  " 

"Yes." 

"Of  course,  all  the  while  I  shall  be  getting  news  from 


IN  FELLER'S  PLACE  331 

him — when  I  have  proven  my  loyalty  and  have  his  com 
plete  confidence — and  I'll  telephone  it  to  you.  I  am 
sure  I  can  get  something  worth  while  with  you  to  direct 
me;  don't  you  think  so,  Lanny?" 

She  put  the  question  as  simply  as  if  she  were  asking 
if  she  might  sew  on  a  button  for  him.  It  had  the  charm 
of  an  intimate  fellowship  of  purpose.  It  appeared  free 
of  the  least  realization  of  the  magnitude  of  her  under 
taking.  Didn't  Mrs.  Galland  believe  that  blood  would 
tell?  And  hadn't  the  old  premier,  her  grandfather,  said: 
"You  can  afford  to  be  fussed  about  little  things  but 
never  about  big  things"? 

"I'll  hold  the  wire,  Lanny.  Ask  Partow!"  she  con 
cluded.  Of  the  two  she  was  the  steadier. 

"Well?"  said  Partow,  looking  up  at  the  sound  of 
Lanstron's  step.  Then  he  half  raised  himself  from  his 
chair  at  sight  of  a  Lanstron  with  eyes  in  a  daze  of  bril 
liancy;  a  Lanstron  with  his  maimed  hand  twitching 
in  an  outstretched  gesture;  a  Lanstron  in  the  dilemma 
of  being  at  the  same  time  lover  and  chief  of  intelli 
gence.  Should  he  let  her  make  the  sacrifice  of  every 
thing  that  he  held  to  be  sacred  to  a  woman's  delicacy? 
Should  he  not  return  to  the  telephone  and  tell  her  that 
he  would  not  permit  her  to  play  such  a  part?  Partow's 
voice  cut  in  on  his  demoralization  with  the  sharpness 
of  a  blade. 

"Well,  what,  man,  what?"  he  demanded.  He  feared 
that  the  girl  might  be  dead.  Anything  that  could 
upset  Lanstron  in  this  fashion  struck  a  chord  of  sym 
pathy  and  apprehension. 

Lanstron  advanced  to  the  table,  pressed  his  hands  on 
the  edge,  and,  now  master  of  himself,  began  an  account 
of  Marta's  offer.  Partow's  formless  arms  lay  inert  on 
the  table,  his  soft,  pudgy  fingers  outspread  on  the  map 
and  his  bulk  settled  deep  in  the  chair,  while  his  eagle 
eyes  were  seeing  through  Lanstron,  through  a  mountain 
range,  into  the  eyes  of  a  woman  and  a  general  on  the 
veranda  of  an  enemy's  headquarters.  The  plan  meant 


332  THE  LAST  SHOT 

giving,  giving  in  the  hope  of  receiving  much  in  return. 
Would  he  get  the  return? 

"A  woman  was  the  ideal  one  for  the  task  we  in 
trusted  to  Feller,"  he  mused,  "a  gentlewoman,  big 
enough,  adroit  enough,  with  her  soul  in  the  work  as  no 
paid  woman's  could  be!  There  seemed  no  such  one  in 
the  world!" 

"But  to  let  her  do  it!"  gasped  Lanstron. 

"It  is  her  suggestion,  not  yours?  She  offers  herself? 
She  wants  no  persuasion?"  Partow  asked  sharply. 

" Entirely  her  suggestion,"  said  Lanstron.  "She 
offers  herself  for  her  country — for  the  cause  for  which 
our  soldiers  will  give  their  lives  by  the  thousands.  It  is 
a  time  of  sacrifice." 

Partow  raised  his  arms.  They  were  not  formless  as 
he  brought  them  down  with  sledge-hammer  force  to  the 
table. 

"Your  tendon  of  Achilles?  My  boy,  she  is  your 
sword-arm!"  His  sturdy  forefinger  ran  along  the  line 
of  frontier  under  his  eye  with  little  staccato  leaps. 
"Eh?"  he  chuckled  significantly,  finger  poised. 

"Let  them  up  the  Bordir  road  and  on  to  redoubts 
36  and  37,  you  mean?"  asked  Lanstron. 

"You  have  it!  The  position  looks  important,  but  so 
well  do  we  command  it  that  it  is  not  really  vital.  Yes, 
the  Bordir  road  is  her  bait  for  Westerling!"  Partow 
waved  his  hand  as  if  the  affair  were  settled. 

"But,"  interjected  Lanstron,  "we  have  also  to  decide 
on  the  point  of  the  main  defence  which  she  is  to  make 
Westerling  think  is  weak." 

"Hm-m!"  grumbled  Partow.  "That  is  not  neces 
sary  to  start  with.  We  can  give  that  to  her  later  over 
the  telephone,  can't  we,  eh?" 

"She  asked  for  it  now." 

"Why?"  demanded  Partow  with  one  of  his  shrewd, 
piercing  looks. 

"She  did  not  say,  but  I  can  guess,"  explained  Lan 
stron.  "She  must  put  all  her  cards  on  the  table;  she 


IN  FELLER'S  PLACE  333 

must  tell  Westerling  all  she  knows  at  once.  If  she  tells 
him  piecemeal  it  might  lead  to  the  supposition  that  she 
still  had  some  means  of  communication  with  the  Browns.'' 

"Of  course,  of  course!"  Par  tow  spatted  the  flat  of 
his  hand  resoundingly  on  the  map.  "As  I  decided  the 
first  time  I  met  her,  she  has  a  head,  and  when  a  woman 
has  a  head  for  that  sort  of  thing  there  is  no  beating  her. 
Well — "  he  was  looking  straight  into  Lanstron's  eyes, 
"well,  I  think  we  know  the  point  where  we  could  draw 
them  in  on  the  main  line,  eh?" 

"Up  the  apron  of  the  approach  from  the  Engadir 
valley.  We  yield  the  advance  redoubts  on  either  side." 

"Meanwhile,  we  have  massed  heavily  behind  the  re 
doubt.  We  retake  the  advance  redoubts  in  a  counter 
attack  and — "  Par  tow  brought  his  fist  into  his  palm 
with  a  smack. 

"Yes,  if  we  could  do  that!  If  we  could  get  them  to 
expend  their  attack  there!"  put  in  Lanstron  very  ex 
citedly  for  him. 

"We  must!  She  shall  help!"  Par  tow  was  on  his 
feet.  He  had  reached  across  the  table  and  seized 
Lanstron's  shoulders  in  a  powerful  if  flesh-padded  grip. 
Then  he  turned  Lanstron  around  toward  the  door  of 
his  bedroom  and  gave  him  a  mighty  slap  of  affection. 
"My  boy,  the  brightest  hope  of  victory  we  have  is  hold 
ing  the  wire  for  you.  Tell  her  that  a  bearded  old  behe 
moth,  who  can  kneel  as  gracefully  as  a  rheumatic 
rhinoceros,  is  on  both  knees  at  her  feet,  kissing  her  hands 
and  trying  his  best,  in  the  name  of  mercy,  to  keep  from 
breaking  into  verse  of  his  own  composition." 

Back  at  the  telephone,  Lanstron,  in  the  fervor  of  the 
cheer  and  the  enthusiasm  that  had  transported  his 
chief,  gave  Marta  Partow's  message. 

"You,  Marta,  are  our  brightest  hope  of  victory!" 

"Yes?"  The  monosyllable  was  detached,  dismal, 
labored.  "A  woman  can  be  that!"  she  exclaimed  in 
an  uncertain  tone,  which  grew  into  the  distraction  of 
clipped  words  and  broken  sentences.  "A  woman  play- 


334  THE  LAST  SHOT 

acting — a  woman  acting  the  most  revolting  hypocrisy 
—influences  the  issue  between  two  nations!  Her  de 
ceit  deals  in  the  lives  of  sons  precious  to  fathers  and 
mothers,  the  fate  of  frontiers,  of  institutions!  Think  of 
it!  Think  of  machines  costing  countless  millions- 
machines  of  flesh  and  blood,  with  their  destinies  shaped 
by  one  little  bit  of  lying  information!  Think  of  the 
folly  of  any  civilization  that  stakes  its  triumphs  on  such 
a  gamble!  Am  I  not  right?  Isn't  it  true?  Isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  yes,  Marta!  But — I —  If  she  were  weaken 
ing  it  was  not  his  place  to  try  to  strengthen  her  purpose. 

"I  was  thinking,  only  thinking!"  she  murmured  re 
flectively.  "That's  not  the  thing  now!"  she  added 
with  sudden  force.  "Partow  gave  you  the  positions?" 

He  described  the  Bordir  position.  She  repeated  the 
description  after  him  with  a  stoical  matter-of-factness 
to  make  sure  that  she  had  it  correctly. 

"I  must  actually  know  in  order  to  be  convincing," 
she  said.  "Now  that  of  the  main  line." 

He  did  not  include  in  the  description  of  Engadir  any 
reference  to  the  Browns'  plan  of  a  crushing  counter 
attack.  But  as  she  was  repeating  this,  her  calm  tone 
broke  into  an  outcry  of  horror,  as  the  nature  of  what  he 
was  inadvertently  concealing  flashed  into  her  mind. 
She  was  seeing  another  picture  of  imagination,  with  all 
the  hideous  detail  of  realism  drawn  from  her  week's 
experiences. 

"That  column  of  Grays  will  go  forward  cheering  with 
victory,  led  on,  tricked  on — and  then  they  will  find 
themselves  in  a  shambles.  No  going  forward,  no  going 
back  through  the  cross-fire!  Is  that  it?" 

"Yes,  something  like  that,  though  not  exactly  a  cross 
fire — not  unless  the  enemy  has  poorer  generals  than  we 
think." 

"But  that  will  be  the  object  and  the  effect — whole 
sale  slaughter?" 

''Yes!"  assented  Lanstron  honestly. 

"And  a  woman  whose  greatest  happiness  and  pride 


IN  FELLER'S  PLACE  335 

was  in  teaching  the  righteousness  and  the  beauty  of 
peace  to  children — her  lie  will  send  them  to  death!" 
she  moaned.  "I  shall  be  a  party  to  murder!" 

"No  more  than  Westerling!  No  more  than  any  gen 
eral!  No — "  But  he  paused  in  his  argument.  Con 
viction  must  come  to  her  from  within,  not  from  without. 
He  stood  graven  and  wordless,  while  she  was  tortured  in 
the  hell  of  her  mind's  creation. 

She  was  hearing  the  cry  in  the  night  of  the  Gray 
soldier  who  had  fallen  from  the  dirigible  in  the  first  day's 
fighting;  the  agonized  groans  of  the  men  under  the  wall 
of  the  terrace  when  the  hand-grenades  spattered  human 
flesh  as  if  it  were  jelly.  But  there  was  Dellarme  smil 
ing;  there  was  Hugo  Mallin  saying  that  he  would  fight 
for  his  own  home;  there  was  Stransky,  who  had  thrown 
the  hand-grenade,  bringing  in  an  exhausted  old  man 
on  his  back  from  under  fire ;  there  was  Feller  as  he  rallied 
Dellarme's  men;  and — and  there  was  Lanny  waiting  at 
the  other  end  of  the  wire — and  a  burglar  should  not  take 
her  home. 

"Men  must  have  the  courage  of  their  convictions!" 
Hugo  had  said.  Hers  were  all  for  peace.  But  there 
was  not  peace.  There  could  not  be  peace  until  the  war 
demon  had  had  his  fill  of  killing  and  one  side  had  to  cry 
for  mercy.  Which  side  should  that  be?  That  was  the 
only  question. 

"It  will  the  sooner  end  fighting,  won't  it,  Lanny?" 
she  asked  in  a  small,  tense  voice. 

"Yes." 

"And  the  only  real  end  that  means  real  peace  is  to 
prove  that  the  weak  can  hold  back  the  strong  from  their 
threshold?" 

"Yes." 

Even  now  Westerling  might  be  on  the  veranda,  per 
haps  waiting  for  news  that  would  enable  him  to  crush 
the  weak ;  to  prove  that  the  law  of  five  pounds  of  human 
flesh  against  three,  and  five  bayonets  against  three,  is 
the  law  of  civilization. 


336  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"Yes,  yes,  yes!"  The  constriction  was  gone  from  her 
throat;  there  was  a  drum-beat  in  her  soul.  " Depend  on 
me,  Lanny!"  It  was  Feller's  favorite  phrase  spoken  by 
the  one  who  was  to  take  his  place.  "Yes,  I'm  ready 
to  make  any  sacrifice  now.  For  what  am  I?  What  is 
one  woman  compared  to  such  a  purpose?  I  don't  care 
what  is  said  of  me  or  what  becomes  of  me  if  we  can  win ! 
Good-by,  Lanny,  till  I  call  you  up  again!  And  God 
with  us!" 

"God  with  us!"  as  Partow  had  said,  over  and  over. 
The  saying  had  come  to  be  repeated  by  hard-headed, 
agnostic  staff-officers,  who  believed  that  the  deity  had 
no  relation  to  the  efficiency  of  gun-fire.  The  Brown  in 
fantrymen  even  were  beginning  to  mutter  it  in  the  midst 
of  action. 


XXXIV 

THREE  VOICES 

WAITING  on  the  path  of  the  second  terrace  for  Wester- 
ling  to  come,  Marta  realized  the  full  meaning  of  her  task. 
Day  in  and  day  out  she  was  to  have  suspense  at  her 
elbow  and  the  horror  of  hypocrisy  on  her  conscience, 
the  while  keeping  her  wits  nicely  balanced.  She  must 
feel  her  part  and  at  the  same  time  she  must  be  sufficiently 
conscious  that  she  was  playing  a  part  not  to  let  any  im 
pulse  of  aversion  betray  her.  The  tea-table  scene  had 
been  a  rehearsal;  coming  was  a  premiere  before  the 
ghostly,  still  faces  across  the  bent  glare  of  the  footlights. 
No  ready-made  lines,  hers.  She  must  create  them. 
Every  word  must  be  the  right  word  and  spoken  in  the 
right  way,  all  for  the  deception  of  one  man. 

When  she  saw  Westerling  appear  on  the  veranda  and 
start  over  the  lawn  she  felt  dizzy  and  uncertain  of 
her  capabilities.  In  the  gathering  dusk  he  seemed  of 
giant  stature,  too  masterful  to  be  outwitted  by  any 
trickery  she  might  devise.  She  wondered  if  she  would 
be  able  to  articulate  a  word;  if  she  would  not  turn  and 
flee. 

"I  have  considered  all  that  you  said  for  my  guidance 
and  I  have  decided,"  she  began. 

Marta  heard  her  own  voice  with  the  relief  of  a  singer 
in  a  debut  who,  with  knees  shaking,  finds  that  her 
notes  are  true.  She  was  looking  directly  at  Westerling 
in  profound  seriousness.  Though  knees  shook,  lips 
and  chin  could  aid  eyes  in  revealing  the  painful  fatigue 
of  a  battle  that  had  raged  in  the  mind  of  a  woman  who 
went  away  for  half  an  hour  to  think  for  herself. 

337 


338  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"I  have  concluded,"  she  went  on,  "that  it  is  an  oc 
casion  for  the  sacrifice  of  private  ethics  to  a  great  pur 
pose,  the  sooner  to  end  the  slaughter." 

"All  true!"  whispered  an  inner  voice.  Its  tone  was 
Lanny's,  in  the  old  days  of  their  comradeship.  It  gave 
her  strength.  All  true! 

"Yes,  an  end — a  speedy  end!"  said  Westerling  with  a 
fine,  inflexible  emphasis.  "That  is  your  prayer  and 
mine  and  the  prayer  of  all  lovers  of  humanity." 

"He  is  not  thinking  of  humanity,  but  of  individual 
victory!"  whispered  another  voice,  which  had  the 
mellow  tone  of  Hugo  Mailings  deliberate  wisdom. 

"  It  is  little  that  I  know,  but  such  as  it  is  you  shall  have 
it,"  she  began,  conscious  of  his  guarded  scrutiny.  When 
she  told  him  of  Bordir,  the  weak  point  in  the  first  line 
of  the  Browns'  defence,  she  noted  no  change  in  his 
steady  look;  but  with  the  mention  of  Engadir  in  the 
main  line  she  detected  a  gleam  in  his  eyes  that  had  the 
merciless  delight  of  a  cutting  edge  of  steel.  "I  have 
made  my  sacrifice  to  some  purpose?  The  information 
is  worth  something  to  you?"  she  asked  wistfully. 

"Yes,  yes!  Yes,  it  promises  that  way,"  he  replied 
thoughtfully. 

Quietly  he  began  a  considerate  catechism.  Soon  she 
was  subtly  understanding  that  her  answers  lacked  the 
convincing  details  that  he  sought.  She  longed  to  avert 
her  eyes  from  his  for  an  instant,  but  she  knew  that 
this  would  be  fatal.  She  felt  the  force  of  him  directed 
in  professional  channels,  free  of  all  personal  relations, 
beating  as  a  strong  light  on  her  bare  statements.  How 
could  a  woman  ever  have  learned  two  such  vital  secrets? 
How  could  it  happen  that  two  such  critical  points  as 
Bordir  and  Engadir  should  go  undefended?  No  tac 
tician,  no  engineer  but  would  have  realized  their  stra 
tegic  importance.  Did  she  know  what  she  was  say 
ing?  How  did  she  get  her  knowledge?  These,  she 
understood,  were  the  real  questions  that  underlay 
Westerling's  polite  indirection. 


THREE  VOICES  339 

" Invention!  Quick,  quick!  How  did  you  find  out? 
Quick  and  naturally  and  obviously — pure  invention;  no 
half-way  business!"  whispered  still  another  voice,  the 
voice  of  that  most  facile  of  story-builders,  Feller,  this 
time. 

"But  I  have  not  told  you  the  sources  of  my  informa 
tion!  Isn't  that  like  a  woman!"  she  exclaimed.  "You 
see,  it  did  not  concern  me  at  all  at  the  time  I  heard  it. 
I  didn't  even  realize  its  importance  and  I  didn't  hear 
much,"  she  proceeded,  her  introduction  giving  time  for 
improvisation.  "You  see,  Par  tow  was  inspecting  the 
premises  with  Colonel  Lanstron.  My  mother  had  known 
Partow  in  her  younger  days  when  my  grandfather  was 
premier.  We  had  them  both  to  luncheon." 

"Yes?"  put  in  Westerling,  betraying  his  eagerness. 
Partow  and  Lanstron!  Then  her  source  was  one  of 
authority,  not  the  gossip  of  subalterns! 

"And  it  occurs  to  me  now  that,  even  while  he  was  our 
guest,"  she  interjected  in  sudden  indignation — "that 
even  while  he  was  our  guest  Partow  was  planning  to 
make  our  grounds  a  redoubt!" 

"Bully!  Very  feminine  and  convincing!"  whispered 
the  voice  of  Feller. 

"After  luncheon  I  remember  Partow  saying,  'We  are 
going  to  have  a  look  at  the  crops,7  and  they  went  for  a 
walk  out  to  the  knoll  where  the  righting  began." 

"Yes!    When  was  this?"  Westerling  asked  keenly. 

"Only  about  six  weeks  ago,"  answered  Marta. 

"That's  it!  That's  splendid!  If  you'd  said  a  year 
ago  there  would  have  been  time  enough  in  the  mean 
while  to  fortify!"  whispered  the  voice  of  Feller  encour 
agingly.  "You're  going  fine!  Keep  it  up!" 

"Later,  I  came  upon  them  unexpectedly  after  they 
had  returned,"  Marta  went  on.  "They  were  sitting 
there  on  that  seat  concealed  by  the  shrubbery.  I  was 
on  the  terrace  steps  unobserved  and  I  couldn't  help 
overhearing  them.  Their  voices  grew  louder  with  the 
interest  of  their  discussion.  I  caught  something  about 


340  THE  LAST  SHOT 

appropriations  and  aeroplanes  and  Bordir  and  Engadir, 
and  saw  that  Lanstron  was  pleading  with  his  chief.  He 
wanted  a  sum  appropriated  for  fortifications  to  be  ap 
plied  to  building  planes  and  dirigibles.  Finally,  Par- 
tow  consented,  and  I  recall  his  exact  words:  '  They  're 
shockingly  archaically  defended,  especially  Engadir,'  he 
said,  'but  they  can  wait  until  we  get  further  appropria 
tions  in  the  fall.' '  She  was  so  far  under  the  spell  of 
her  own  invention  that  she  believed  the  reality  of  her 
words,  reflected  in  her  wide-open  eyes  which  seemed  to 
have  nothing  to  hide. 

"That  is  all,"  she  exclaimed  with  a  shudder — "all  my 
eavesdropping,  all  my  breach  of  confidence!  If — if  it" — 
and  her  voice  trembled  with  the  intensity  of  the  one 
purpose  that  was  shining  with  the  light  of  truth  through 
the  murk  of  her  deception — "  it  will  only  help  to  end  the 
slaughter!"  She  held  out  her  hand  convulsively  in 
parting  as  if  she  would  leave  the  rest  with  him. 

"I  think  it  will,"  he  said  soberly.  "I  think  it  will 
prove  that  you  have  done  a  great  service,"  he  repeated 
as  he  caught  both  her  hands,  which  were  cold  from  her 
ordeal.  His  own  were  warm  with  the  strong  beating  of 
his  heart  stirred  by  the  promise  of  what  he  had  just 
heard.  But  he  did  not  prolong  the  grasp.  He  was  as 
eager  to  be  away  to  his  work  as  she  to  be  alone.  "I 
think  it  will.  You  will  know  in  the  morning,"  he  added. 

His  steps  were  sturdier  than  ever  in  the  power  of  five 
against  three  as  he  started  back  to  the  house.  When  he 
reached  the  veranda,  Bouchard,  the  saturnine  chief 
of  intelligence,  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the  dining- 
room;  or,  rather,  reappeared,  for  he  had  been  standing 
there  throughout  the  interview  of  Westerling  and  Marta, 
whose  heads  were  just  visible,  above  the  terrace  wall, 
to  his  hawk  eyes. 

"A  little  promenade  in  the  open  and  my  mind  made 
up,"  said  Westerling,  clapping  Bouchard  on  the  shoulder. 

"Something  about  an  attack  to-night?"  asked  Bou 
chard. 


THREE  VOICES  341 

"You  guess  right.     Call  the  others." 

Five  minutes  later  he  was  seated  at  the  head  of  the 
dining-room  table  with  his  chiefs  around  him  waiting 
for  their  chairman  to  speak.  He  asked  some  categorical 
questions  almost  perfunctorily,  and  the  answer  to  each 
was,  "Ready!"  with,  in  some  instances,  a  qualification — 
the  qualification  made  by  regimental  and  brigade  com 
manders  that,  though  they  could  take  the  position  in 
front  of  them,  the  cost  would  be  heavy.  Yes,  all  were 
willing  and  ready  for  the  first  general  assault  of  the  war, 
but  they  wanted  to  state  the  costs  as  a  matter  of  pro 
fessional  self-defence. 

Westerling  could  pose  when  it  served  his  purpose. 
Now  he  rose  and,  going  to  one  of  the  wall  maps,  indi 
cated  a  point  with  his  forefinger. 

"  If  we  get  that  we  have  the  most  vital  position,  haven't 
we?" 

Some  uttered  a  word  of  assent;  some  only  nodded.  A 
glance  or  two  of  curiosity  was  exchanged.  Why  should 
the  chief  of  staff  ask  so  elementary  a  question?  Wester- 
ling  was  not  unconscious  of  the  glances  or  of  their 
meaning.  They  gave  dramatic  value  to  his  next  re 
mark. 

"We  are  going  to  mass  for  our  main  attack  in  front  at 
Bordir!" 

"But,"  exclaimed  four  or  five  officers  at  once,  "that 
is  the  heart  of  the  position!  That  is— 

"I  believe  it  is  weak — that  it  will  fall,  and  to-night!" 

"You  have  information,  then,  information  that  I  have 
not?"  asked  Bouchard. 

"No  more  than  you,"  replied  Westerling.  "Not  as 
much  if  you  have  anything  new." 

"Nothing!"  admitted  Bouchard  wryly.  He  lowered 
his  head  under  Westerling's  penetrating  look  in  the  con 
sciousness  of  failure. 

"I  am  going  on  a  conviction — on  putting  two  and 
two  together!"  Westerling  announced.  "I  am  going 
on  my  experience  as  a  soldier,  as  a  chief  of  staff.  If  I 


342  THE  LAST  SHOT 

am  wrong,  I  take  the  responsibility.     If  I  am  right, 
Bordir  will  be  ours  before  morning.    It  is  settled  I" 

"If  you  are  right,  then,"  exclaimed  Turcas — "well, 
then  it's  genius  or — '  He  did  not  finish  the  sentence. 
He  had  been  about  to  say  coincidence;  while  Westerling 
knew  that  if  he  were  right  all  the  rising  scepticism  in 
certain  quarters,  owing  to  the  delay  in  his  programme, 
would  be  silenced.  His  prestige  would  be  unassailable. 


XXXV 

MRS.  GALLAND  INSISTS 

"You  have  been  in  the  tunnel  again!"  said  Mrs. 
Galland  with  an  emphasis  on  "  again,"  when  Marta 
came  up  the  stairs,  lantern  in  hand,  after  telling  Lan- 
stron  of  her  interview  with  Westerling. 

"Again — yes!"  Marta  replied  mechanically.  Her 
mind  was  empty,  burned  out.  She  had  thought  herself 
through  with  deceit  for  the  day. 

"What  interests  you  so  much  down  there?"  Mrs. 
Galland  pursued  softly. 

Marta  realized  that  she  had  to  deal  with  a  fresh  di 
lemma.  She  could  not  be  making  frequent  visits  to  the 
telephone  without  her  mother's  knowledge;  and,  as  yet, 
Mrs.  Galland  knew  nothing  of  the  part  originally  planned 
for  Feller,  let  alone  any  inkling  of  her  daughter's  part. 

"I  didn't  know  but  it  would  be  a  good  place  to  hide 
our  plate  and  other  treasures,"  said  Marta,  offering 
rather  methodically  the  first  invention  that  came  to 
mind  as  she  threw  open  the  reflector  of  the  lantern  and 
turned  down  the  wick.  She  was  ashamed  of  the  excuse. 
It  warned  her  how  easy  it  was  becoming  for  her  to  lie 
— yes,  lie  was  the  word. 

"Don't  blow  out  the  light,  please,"  said  Mrs.  Galland. 
"I  should  like  to  see  for  myself  if  the  tunnel  is  a  good 
hiding-place  for  the  plate." 

"It's  too  damp  for  you  down  there — it's—  Marta 
blew  out  the  flame  with  a  sudden  gust  of  breath  and 
bolted  across  the  room  and  into  her  chamber,  closing 
the  door  and  taking  the  lantern  with  her.  In  utter 
fatigue  she  dropped  on  the  bed.  Then  came  a  gentle, 
prolonged  knocking  on  the  door. 

343 


344  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"You  forgot  to  leave  the  lantern,"  called  Mrs.  Gal- 
land.  "I  have  come  to  get  it,  if  you  please." 

Marta  did  not  answer.  Her  head  had  sunk  forward; 
her  hands,  bearing  the  weight  of  her  body,  were  resting 
on  her  knees.  All  she  could  think  was  that  one  more  lie 
would  break  the  camel's  back. 

" Marta,  please  mayn't  I  come  in?"  rose  the  gentle 
voice  on  the  other  side  of  the  door.  "Marta,  don't  you 
hear  me?  I  asked  if  I  might  come  in." 

"It's  too  childish  and  silly  to  remain  silent  any  longer," 
thought  Marta.  Tired  nerves  revived  spasmodically  un 
der  another  call  to  action.  "Yes,  certainly,  mother — 
yes,  do!"  she  said  in  a  forced,  metallic  tone. 

Mrs.  Galland  entered  to  find  her  daughter  before  the 
mirror  brushing  her  hair  with  hectic  vigor.  She  did 
not  take  up  the  lantern,  which  Marta  had  left  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  but  seated  herself.  Her  nice  de 
liberation  in  smoothing  out  a  wrinkle  of  her  skirt  over 
her  knees  indicated  that  she  meant  to  stay  a  while. 
She  folded  her  plump,  white  hands;  a  faint  touch  of 
color  came  into  her  round,  pink  cheeks;  a  trace  of  a  smile 
knitted  itself  into  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  She  was 
as  she  had  been — J'y  suis!  J'y  reste! — when  the  captain 
of  engineers  had  pleaded  with  her  at  the  outset  of  the 
war  to  leave  the  house.  In  the  reflection  of  the  mirror 
Marta's  glance  caught  hers,  which  was  without  reproach 
or  complaint,  but  very  resolute. 

"Do  you  like  best  to  keep  it  all  to  yourself,  Marta?" 
Mrs.  Galland  inquired  solicitously. 

"What?     Keep  what?"  asked  Marta  crossly. 

"Even  if  you  have  been  all  the  way  around  the  world, 
it  might  be  easier  if  you  allowed  me  to  help  you  a  little," 
pursued  Mrs.  Galland. 

"Help!    Help  about  what? "  said  Marta. 

That  reply,  as  Marta  knew  now  as  an  expert  in  deceit, 
was  a  mistake.  She  was  hedging  and  petulant  when  she 
ought  to  have  whirled  around  gayly  and  kissed  her 
mother  on  the  cheek,  while  laughing  at  such  solemnity 


MRS.   GALLAND  INSISTS  345 

over  a  trip  of  exploration  through  the  tunnel.  Mrs. 
Galland  had  caught  her  prevaricating.  Not  since  Marta 
was  a  little  girl  of  seven  had  she  "fibbed"  to  her  mother; 
and  on  that  memorable  and  ethically  instructive  oc 
casion  her  mother  had  regarded  her  in  this  same  calm 
fashion. 

"At  all  events,"  said  Mrs.  Galland,  "I  could  help  you 
a  little  if  you  would  let  me  comb  your  hair.  You  are 
combing  in  a  most  unsystematic  way,  I  must  say. 
Systematic,  gentle  combing  is  very  good  for  headaches 
and- 

There  was  a  twinkle  in  Mrs.  Galland's  eye  that  was 
not  exactly  humor;  a  persistent  twinkle  that  seemed  to 
shine  out  of  every  part  of  the  mirror.  Her  curiosity 
had  come  to  stay;  there  was  no  escaping  it.  Marta 
brought  her  brush  down  with  a  bang  on  the  bureau, 
only  to  be  disgusted  with  this  show  of  temper  which  the 
persistent  twinkle  had  not  missed.  Her  next  impulse, 
unanalyzed  because  it  was  one  of  the  oldest  and  simplest 
of  impulses,  made  her  spin  round  and  drop  on  her  knees 
at  her  mother's  feet,  which  was  just  what  had  happened 
when  she  had  started  to  brave  out  the  last  lie — the  child 
hood  lie. 

Her  head  buried  in  her  mother's  lap,  she  was  sobbing. 
It  was  many  years  since  Mrs.  Galland  had  known  Marta 
to  sob  and  she  was  glad  that  Marta  had  not  forgotten 
how.  She  believed  in  the  value  of  the  law  of  overflow. 
When  Marta  looked  up  with  eyes  still  moist,  it  was  with 
the  joyous  satisfaction  that  begins  a  confession.  Not 
once  during  the  recital  did  the  smile  fade  from  Mrs. 
Galland's  lips.  She  was  too  well  fortified  for  any  kind 
of  a  shock  to  exhibit  surprise. 

"You  see,  I  could  not  tell  you — I —  "  Marta  concluded, 
still  uncertain  what  conclusion  lay  behind  her  mother's 
attitude. 

"Of  course  you  could  not,"  said  Mrs.  Galland.  "As 
your  grandfather — my  father,  the  premier — said,  a  man 
of  action  cannot  stop  to  explain  everything  he  does. 


346  THE  LAST  SHOT 

He  must  strike  while  the  iron  is  hot.  If  you  had  stopped 
to  discuss  every  step  you  would  not  have  gone  far — 
Yes,  I  should  have  argued  and  protested.  It  was  best 
that  I,  being  as  I  am — that  I  should  not  have  been  told 
— not  until  now." 

"And  I  must  go  on!'7  added  Marta. 

"Of  course  you  must!"  replied  Mrs.  Galland.  "You 
must  for  the  sake  of  the  Browns — the  flag  your  father  and 
grandfather  served.  They  would  not  have  approved  of 
petty  deceit,  but  anything  for  the  cause,  any  sacrifices, 
any  immolation  of  self  and  personal  sensibilities.  Yes, 
your  father  would  have  been  happy,  though  he  had  no 
son,  to  know  that  his  daughter  might  do  such  a  service. 
And  we  must  tell  Minna,"  she  added. 

"Minna!  You  think  so?  Every  added  link  may  mean 
weakness." 

"But  Minna  will  see  you  going  and  coming  from  the 
tunnel,  too.  She  is  for  the  Browns  with  all  her  heart. 
They  are  her  people  and,  besides,"  Mrs.  Galland  smiled 
rather  broadly,  "that  giant  Stransky  is  with  the  Browns!" 
So  Minna  was  told. 

"I'd  like  to  kiss  your  skirt,  Miss  Galland!"  exclaimed 
Minna  in  admiration. 

"Better  kiss  me!"  said  Marta,  throwing  her  arms 
around  the  girl.  "We  must  stand  together  and  think 
together  in  any  emergency." 

Soon  after  dark  the  attack  began.  Flashes  of  burst 
ing  shells  and  flashes  from  gun  mouths  and  glowing 
sheets  of  flame  from  rifles  made  ugly  revelry,  while  the 
beams  of  search-lights  swept  hither  and  thither.  This 
kept  up  till  shortly  after  midnight,  when  it  died  down 
and,  where  hell's  concert  had  raged,  silent  darkness 
shrouded  the  hills.  Marta  knew  that  Bordir  was  taken 
without  having  to  ask  Lanstron  or  wait  for  confirmation 
from  Westerling. 

She  was  seated  in  the  recess  of  the  arbor  the  next 
morning,  when,  she  heard  the  approach  of  those  regular, 
powerful  steps  whose  character  had  become  as  distinct 


MRS.   GALLAND  INSISTS  347 

to  her  as  those  of  a  member  of  her  own  family.  Five 
against  three!  five  against  three!  they  were  saying  to 
her;  while  down  the  pass  road  and  the  castle  road  ran 
the  stream  of  wounded  from  last  night's  slaughter. 

Posted  in  the  drawing-room  of  the  Galland  house  were 
the  congratulations  of  the  premier  to  Westerling,  who 
had  come  from  the  atmosphere  of  a  staff  that  accorded 
to  him  a  military  insight  far  above  the  analysis  of  or 
dinary  standards.  But  he  was  too  clever  a  man  to  vaunt 
his  triumph.  He  knew  how  to  carry  his  honors.  He 
accepted  success  as  his  due,  in  a  matter-of-course  manner 
that  must  inspire  confidence  in  further  success. 

"You  were  right/'  he  said  to  Marta  easily,  pleas 
antly.  "We  did  it — we  did  it — we  took  Bordir  with  a 
loss  of  only  twenty  thousand  men!" 

Only  twenty  thousand!  Her  revulsion  at  the  bald 
statement  was  relieved  by  the  memory  of  Lanny's  word 
over  the  telephone  after  breakfast  that  the  Browns  had 
lost  only  five  thousand.  Four  to  one  was  a  wide  ratio, 
she  was  thinking. 

"Then  the  end — then  peace  is  so  much  the  nearer?" 
she  asked. 

"Very  much  nearer!"  he  answered  earnestly,  as  he 
dropped  on  the  bench  beside  her. 

He  stretched  his  arms  out  on  the  back  of  the  seat  and 
the  relaxed  attitude,  unusual  with  him,  brought  into 
relief  a  new  trait  of  which  she  had  been  hitherto  ob 
livious.  The  conqueror  had  become  simply  a  com 
panionable  man.  Though  he  was  not  sitting  close  to 
her,  yet,  as  his  eyes  met  hers,  she  had  a  desire  to  move 
away  which  she  knew  would  be  unwise  to  gratify.  She 
was  conscious  of  a  certain  softening  charm,  a  magnetism 
that  she  had  sometimes  felt  in  the  days  when  she  first 
knew  him.  She  realized,  too,  that  then  the  charm  had 
not  been  mixed  with  the  indescribable,  intimate  quality 
that  it  held  now. 

"In  the  midst  of  congratulations  after  the  position 
was  taken  last  night,"  he  declared,  "I  confess  that  I  was 


348  THE  LAST  SHOT 

thinking  less  of  success  than  of  its  source."  He  bent  on 
her  a  look  that  was  warm  with  gratitude. 

She  lowered  her  lashes  before  it;  before  gratitude  that 
made  her  part  appear  in  a  fresh  angle  of  misery. 

"There  seems  to  be  a  kind  of  fatality  about  our  re 
lations,"  he  went  on.  "I  lay  awake  pondering  it  last 
night."  His  tone  held  more  than  gratitude.  It  had 
the  elation  of  discovery. 

" Look  out!  Look  out,  now !"  Not  only  the  voices  of 
Lanny  and  Feller  and  Hugo  warned  her,  but  also  those 
of  her  mother  and  Minna. 

"He  is  going  to  make  it  harder  than  I  ever  guessed!" 
echoed  her  own  thought,  in  a  flutter  of  confusion. 

"Yes,  it  was  strange  our  meeting  on  the  frontier  in 
peace  and  then  in  war!"  she  exclaimed  at  random.  The 
sound  of  the  remark  struck  her  as  too  subdued;  as  ex 
pectant,  when  her  purpose  was  one  of  careless  depre 
cation. 

"I  have  met  a  great  many  women,  as  you  may  have 
imagined,"  he  proceeded.  "They  passed  in  review. 
They  were  simply  women,  witty  and  frail  or  dull  and 
beautiful,  and  one  meant  no  more  to  me  than  another. 
Nothing  meant  anything  to  me  except  my  profession. 
But  I  never  forgot  you.  You  planted  something  in 
mind:  a  memory  of  real  companionship." 

"Yes,  I  made  the  prophecy  that  came  true!"  she  put 
in.  This  ought  to  bring  him  back  to  himself  and  his 
ambitions,  she  thought. 

"Yes!"  he  exclaimed,  his  body  stiffening  free  of  the 
back  of  the  seat.  "You  realized  what  was  in  me.  You 
foresaw  the  power  which  was  to  be  mine.  The  fate 
that  first  brought  us  together  made  me  look  you  up  in 
the  capital.  Now  it  brings  us  together  here  on  this 
bench  after  all  that  has  passed  in  the  last  twenty-four 
hours." 

She  realized  that  he  had  drawn  perceptibly  nearer. 
She  wanted  to  rise  and  cry  out:  "Don't  do  this!  Be 
the  chief  of  staff,  the  conqueror,  crushing  the  earth  with 


MRS.   GALLAND  INSISTS  349 

the  tread  of  five  against  three!"  It  was  the  conqueror 
whom  she  wanted  to  trick,  not  a  man  whose  earnestness 
was  painting  her  deceit  blacker.  Far  from  rising,  she 
made  no  movement  at  all;  only  looked  at  her  hands  and 
allowed  him  to  go  on,  conscious  of  the  force  of  a  person 
ality  that  mastered  men  and  armies  now  warm  and  ap 
pealing  in  the  full  tide  of  another  purpose. 

"The  victory  that  I  was  thinking  of  last  night  was 
not  the  taking  of  Bordir.  It  was  finer  than  any  victory 
in  war.  It  was  selfish — not  for  army  and  country,  but 
born  of  a  human  weakness  triumphant;  a  human  weak 
ness  of  which  my  career  had  robbed  me,"  he  continued. 
"It  gave  me  a  joy  that  even  the  occupation  of  the 
Browns'  capital  could  not  give.  I  had  come  as  an  in 
vader  and  I  had  won  your  confidence." 

"In  a  cause!"  she  interrupted  hurriedly,  wildly,  to 
stop  him  from  going  further,  only  to  find  that  her  in 
tonation  was  such  that  it  was  drawing  him  on. 

"That  fatality  seemed  to  be  working  itself  out  to  the 
soldier  so  much  older  than  yourself  in  renewed  youth,  in 
another  form  of  ambition.  I  hoped  that  there  was  more 
than  the  cause  that  led  you  to  trust  me.  I  hoped — 

Was  he  testing  her?  Was  he  playing  a  part  of  his 
own  to  make  certain  that  she  was  not  playing  one?  She 
looked  up  swiftly  for  answer.  There  was  no  gainsaying 
what  she  saw  in  his  eyes.  It  was  beating  into  hers  with 
the  power  of  an  overwhelming  masculine  passion  and  a 
maturity  of  intellect  as  his  egoism  admitted  a  comrade 
to  its  throne.  Such  is  ever  the  way  of  the  man  in  the 
forties  when  the  clock  strikes  for  him.  But  who  could 
know  better  the  craft  of  courtship  than  one  of  Wes- 
terling's  experience?  He  was  fighting  for  victory;  to 
gratify  a  desire. 

"I  did  not  expect  this — I — "  The  words  escaped 
tumultuously  and  chokingly. 

She  heard  all  the  voices  in  chorus:  "Look  out!  Look 
out!"  And  then  the  voice  of  Feller  alone,  insinuating, 
with  a  sinister  mischievousness:  "What  more  could  you 


350  THE  LAST  SHOT 

ask?  Now  that  you  have  him,  hold  him!  For  God 
and  country — for  our  dear  Brown  land!" 

Hold  a  man  who  was  making  love  to  her  by  the 
tricks  of  the  courtesan!  But  what  kind  of  love?  He 
was  bending  so  close  to  her  that  she  felt  his  breath  on 
her  cheek  burning  hot,  and  she  was  sickeningly  conscious 
that  he  was  looking  her  over  in  that  point-by-point 
manner  which  she  had  felt  across  the  tea-table  at  the 
hotel.  This  horrible  thing  in  his  glance  she  had  some 
times  seen  in  strangers  on  her  travels,  and  it  had  made 
her  think  that  she  was  wise  to  carry  a  little  revolver. 
She  wanted  to  strike  him. 

" Confess!  Confess!"  called  all  her  own  self-respect. 
"Make  an  end  to  your  abasement!" 

"Confession,  after  the  Browns  have  given  up  Bordir! 
Confession  that  makes  Lanny,  not  Westerling,  your 
dupe!"  came  the  reply,  which  might  have  been  tele 
graphed  into  her  mind  from  the  high,  white  forehead  of 
Partow  bending  over  his  maps.  "  Confession,  betraying 
the  cause  of  the  right  against  the  wrong;  the  three  to 
the  conquering  five!  No!  You  are  in  the  things.  You 
may  not  retreat  now." 

For  a  few  seconds  only  the  duel  of  argument  thundered 
in  her  temples — seconds  in  which  her  lips  were  parted 
and  quivering  and  her  eyes  dilated  with  an  agitation 
which  the  man  at  her  side  could  interpret  as  he  pleased. 
A  prompting  devil — a  devil  roused  by  that  thing  in  his 
eyes — urging  a  finesse  in  double-dealing  which  only 
devils  understand,  made  her  lips  hypnotically  turn  in 
a  smile,  her  eyes  soften,  and  sent  her  hand  out  to  Wes 
terling  in  a  trancelike  gesture.  For  an  instant  it  rested 
on  his  arm  with  telling  pressure,  though  she  felt  it  burn 
with  shame  at  the  point  of  contact. 

"We  must  not  think  of  that  now,"  she  said.  "We 
must  think  of  nothing  personal;  of  nothing  but  your 
work  until  your  work  is  done!" 

The  prompting  devil  had  not  permitted  a  false  note 
in  her  voice.  Her  very  pallor,  in  fixity  of  idea,  served 


MRS.  GALLAND  INSISTS  351 

her  purpose.  Westerling  drew  a  deep  breath  that  seemed 
to  expand  his  whole  being  with  greater  appreciation  of 
her.  Yet  that  harried  hunger,  the  hunger  of  a  beast, 
was  still  in  his  glance. 

"This  is  like  you — like  what  I  want  you  to  be!"  he 
said.  "You  are  right."  He  caught  her  hand,  enclosing 
it  entirely  in  his  grip,  and  she  was  sensible,  in  a  kind  of 
dazed  horror,  of  the  thrill  of  his  strength.  "Nothing 
can  stop  us!  Numbers  will  win!  Hard  fighting  in  the' 
mercy  of  a  quick  end!"  he  declared  with  his  old  rigidity 
of  five  against  three  which  was  welcome  to  her.  "Then," 
he  added— "and  then— 

"Then ! "  she  repeated,  averting  her  glance.  " Then —  " 
There  the  devil  ended  the  sentence  and  she  withdrew  her 
hand  and  felt  the  relief  of  one  escaping  suffocation,  to 
find  that  he  had  realized  that  anything  further  during 
that  interview  would  be  banality  and  was  rising  to  go. 

"I  don't  feel  decent!"  she  thought.  "Society  turned  on 
Minna  for  a  human  weakness — but  I — I'm  not  a  human 
being!  I  am  one  of  the  pawns  of  the  machine  of  war!" 

Walking  slowly  with  lowered  head  as  she  left  the 
arbor,  she  almost  ran  into  Bouchard,  who  apologized 
with  the  single  word  "Pardon!"  as  he  lifted  his  cap  in 
overdone  courtesy,  which  his  stolid  brevity  made  the 
more  conspicuous. 

"Miss  Galland,  you  seem  lost  in  abstraction,"  he 
said  in  sudden  loquacity.  "I  am  almost  on  the  point 
of  accusing  you  of  being  a  poet." 

' '  Accusing ! ' '  she  replied .  ' '  Then  you  must  think  that 
I  would  write  bad  poetry." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  should  say  excellent — using  the 
sonnet  form,"  he  returned. 

"I  might  make  a  counter  accusation,  only  that  yours 
would  be  the  epic  form,"  answered  Marta.  "For  you, 
too,  seem  fond  of  rambling." 

There  was  a  veiled  challenge  in  the  hawk  eyes,  which 
she  met  with  commonplace  politeness  in  hers,  before 
he  again  lifted  his  cap  and  proceeded  on  his  way. 


XXXVI 

MARKING  TIME 

FOR  the  next  two  weeks  Malta's  role  resolved  itself 
into  a  kind  of  routine.  Their  cramped  quarters  became 
spacious  to  the  three  women  in  the  intimacy  of  the  com 
mon  secret  shared  by  them  under  the  very  nose  of  the 
staff.  With  little  Clarissa  Eileen,  they  formed  the  only 
feminine  society  in  the  neighborhood.  On  sunshiny 
days  Mrs.  Galland  was  usually  to  be  found  in  her  favorite 
chair  outside  the  tower  door;  and  here  Minna  set  the 
urn  on  a  table  at  four-thirty  as  in  the  old  days. 

No  member  of  the  staff  was  more  frequently  present 
at  Marta's  teas  than  Bouchard,  who  was  developing  his 
social  instinct  late  in  life  by  sitting  in  the  background 
and  allowing  others  to  do  the  talking  while  he  watched 
and  listened.  In  his  hearing,  Marta's  attitude  toward 
the  progress  of  the  war  was  sympathetic  but  never  in 
terrogatory,  while  she  shared  attention  with  Clarissa 
Eileen,  who  was  in  danger  of  becoming  spoiled  by  officers 
who  had  children  of  their  own  at  home.  After  the  re 
ports  of  killed  and  wounded,  which  came  with  such  ap 
palling  regularity,  it  was  a  relief  to  hear  of  the  day's 
casualties  among  Clarissa's  dolls.  The  chief  of  trans 
portation  and  supply  rode  her  on  his  shoulder;  the  chief 
of  tactics  played  hide-and-seek  with  her;  the  chief  en 
gineer  built  her  a  doll  house  of  stones  with  his  own  hands ; 
and  the  chief  medical  officer  was  as  concerned  when  she 
caught  a  cold  as  if  the  health  of  the  army  were  at  stake. 

"We  mustn't  get  too  set  up  over  all  this  attention, 
Clarissa  Eileen,  my  rival,"  said  Marta  to  the  child. 
"You  are  the  only  little  girl  and  I  am  the  only  big  girl 

352 


MARKING  TIME  353 

within  reach.  If  there  were  lots  of  others  it  would  be 
different." 

She  had  occasional  glimpses  of  Hugo  Mallin  on  his 
crutches,  keeping  in  the  vicinity  of  the  shrubbery  that 
screened  the  stable  from  the  house.  How  Marta  longed 
to  talk  with  him!  But  he  was  always  attended  by  a 
soldier,  and  under  the  rigorous  discipline  that  held  all 
her  impulses  subservient  to  her  purpose  she  passed  by 
him  without  a  word  lest  she  compromise  her  position. 

Bouchard  was  losing  flesh ;  his  eyes  were  sinking  deeper 
under  a  heavier  frown.  His  duty  being  to  get  infor 
mation,  he  was  gaining  none.  His  duty  being  to  keep 
the  Grays'  secrets,  there  was  a  leak  somewhere  in  his 
own  department.  He  quizzed  subordinates;  he  made 
abrupt  transfers,  to  no  avail. 

Meanwhile,  the  Grays  were  taking  the  approaches  to 
the  main  line  of  defence,  which  had  been  thought  rela 
tively  immaterial  but  had  been  found  shrewdly  placed 
and  their  vulnerability  overestimated.  The  thunders 
of  batteries  hammering  them  became  a  routine  of  exis 
tence,  like  the  passing  of  trains  to  one  living  near  a 
railroad.  The  guns  went  on  while  tea  was  being  served; 
they  ushered  in  dawn  and  darkness;  they  were  going 
when  sleep  came  to  those  whom  they  later  awakened 
with  a  start.  Fights  as  desperate  as  the  one  around  the 
house  became  features  of  this  period,  which  was  only 
a  warming-up  practice  for  the  war  demon  before  the 
orgy  of  the  impending  assault  on  the  main  line. 

Marta  began  to  realize  the  immensity  of  the  chess 
board  and  of  the  forces  engaged  in  more  than  the  bare 
statement  of  numbers  and  distances.  If  a  first  attack 
on  a  position  failed,  the  wires  from  the  Galland  house 
repeated  their  orders  to  concentrate  more  guns  and  at 
tack  again.  In  the  end  the  Browns  always  yielded,  but 
grudgingly,  calculatingly,  never  being  taken  by  surprise. 
The  few  of  them  who  fell  prisoners  said,  "God  with  us! 
We  shall  win  in  the  end!"  and  answered  no  questions. 
Gradually  the  Gray  army  began  to  feel  that  it  was  bat- 


354  THE  LAST  SHOT 

tling  with  a  mystery  which  was  fighting  under  cover, 
falling  back  under  cover — a  tenacious,  watchful  mystery 
that  sent  sprays  of  death  into  every  finger  of  flesh  that 
the  Grays  thrust  forward  in  assault. 

"Another  position  taken.  Our  advance  continues," 
was  the  only  news  that  Westerling  gave  to  the  army,  his 
people,  and  the  world,  which  forgot  its  sports  and  mur 
ders  and  divorce  cases  in  following  the  progress  of  the  first 
great  European  war  for  two  generations.  He  made  no 
mention  of  the  costs;  his  casualty  lists  were  secret.  The 
Gray  hosts  were  sweeping  forward  as  a  slow,  irresistible 
tide;  this  by  Partow's  own  admission.  He  announced 
the  loss  of  a  position  as  promptly  as  the  Grays  its  taking. 
He  published  a  daily  list  of  casualties  so  meagre  in  con 
trast  to  their  own  that  the  Grays  thought  it  false;  he 
made  known  the  names  of  the  killed  and  wounded  to 
their  relatives.  Yet  the  seeming  candor  of  his  press 
bureau  included  no  straw  of  information  of  military 
value  to  the  enemy. 

Westerling  never  went  to  tea  at  the  Gallands'  with  the 
other  officers,  for  it  was  part  of  his  cultivation  of  great 
ness  to  keep  aloof  from  his  subordinates.  His  meetings 
with  Marta  happened  casually  when  he  went  out  into 
the  garden.  Only  once  had  he  made  any  reference  to 
the  "And  then'*  of  their  interview  in  the  arbor. 

"I  am  winning  battles  for  you!"  he  had  exclaimed 
with  that  thing  in  his  eyes  which  she  loathed. 

To  her  it  was  equivalent  to  saying  that  she  had  tricked 
him  into  sending  men  to  be  killed  in  order  to  please 
her.  She  despised  herself  for  the  way  he  confided  in 
her;  yet  she  had  to  go  on  keeping  his  confidence,  re 
turning  a  tender  glance  with  one  that  held  out  hope. 
She  learned  not  to  shudder  when  he  spoke  of  a  loss  of 
"only  ten  thousand."  In  order  to  rally  herself  when  she 
grew  faint-hearted  to  her  task,  she  learned  to  picture 
the  lines  of  his  face  hard-set  with  five-against- three 
brutality,  while  in  comfort  he  ordered  multitudes  to 
death,  and,  in  contrast,  to  recall  the  smile  of  Dellarme, 


MARKING  TIME  355 

who  asked  his  soldiers  to  undergo  no  risk  that  he  would 
not  share.  And  after  every  success  he  would  remark 
that  he  was  so  much  nearer  Engadir,  that  position  of 
the  main  line  of  defence  whose  weakness  she  had  re 
vealed. 

"Your  Engadir!"  he  came  to  say.  "Then  we  shall 
again  profit  by  your  information;  that  is,  unless  they 
have  fortified  since  you  received  it." 

"They  haven't.  They  had  already  fortified!"  she 
thought.  She  was  always  seeing  the  mockery  of  his 
words  in  the  light  of  her  own  knowledge  and  her  own 
part,  which  never  quite  escaped  her  consciousness.  One 
chamber  of  her  mind  was  acting  for  him;  a  second  cham 
ber  was  perfectly  aware  that  the  other  was  acting. 

"One  position  more — the  Twin  Boulder  Redoubt,  it 
is  called,"  he  announced  at  last.  "We  shall  not  press 
hard  in  front.  We  shall  drive  in  masses  on  either  side 
and  storm  the  flanks." 

This  she  was  telephoning  to  Lanstron  a  few  minutes 
later  and  having,  in  return,  all  the  news  of  the  Browns. 
The  sheer  fascination  of  knowing  what  both  sides  were 
doing  exerted  its  spell  in  keeping  her  to  her  part. 

"They've  lost  four  hundred  thousand  men  now, 
Lanny,"  she  said. 

"Aiid  we  only  a  hundred  thousand.  We're  whittling 
them  down,"  answered  Lanstron. 

"Whittling  them  down!  What  a  ghastly  expression!" 
she  gasped.  "You  are  as  bad  as  Westerling  and  I  am 
worse  than  either  of  you!  I — I  announced  the  four 
hundred  thousand  as  if  they  were  a  score — a  score  in  a 
game  in  our  favor.  I  am  helping,  Lanny?  All  my  sac 
rifice  isn't  for  nothing?"  she  asked  for  the  hundredth 
time. 

"Immeasurably.  You  have  saved  us  many  lives!" 
he  replied. 

"And  cost  them  many?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  Marta,  no  doubt,"  he  admitted;  "but  no  more 
than  they  would  have  lost  in  the  end.  It  is  only  the 


356  THE  LAST  SHOT 

mounting  up  of  their  casualties  that  can  end  the  war. 
Thus  the  lesson  must  be  taught." 

"And  I  can  be  of  most  help  when  the  attack  on  the 
main  defence  is  begun?" 

"Yes." 

"And  when  Westerling  finds  that  my  information  is 
false  about  Engadir — then " 

She  had  never  put  the  question  to  him  in  this  way 
before.  What  would  Westerling  do  if  he  found  her  out? 

"My  God,  Marta!"  he  exclaimed.  "If  I'd  had  any 
sense  I  would  have  thought  of  that  in  the  beginning  and 
torn  out  the  'phone!  I've  been  mad,  mad  with  the  one 
thought  of  the  nation — inhuman  in  my  greedy  patriot 
ism.  I  will  not  let  you  go  any  further!" 

It  was  a  new  thing  for  her  to  be  rallying  him;  yet  this 
she  did  as  the  strange  effect  of  his  protest  on  the  ab 
normal  sensibilities  that  her  acting  had  developed. 

"Thinking  of  me— little  me!"  she  called  back.  "Of 
one  person's  comfort  when  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
other  women  are  in  terror;  when  the  destiny  of  millions 
is  at  stake!  Lanny,  you  are  in  a  blue  funk!"  and  she 
was  laughing  forcedly  and  hectically.  "I'm  going 
on — going  on  like  one  in  a  trance  who  can't  stop  if  he 
would.  It's  all  right,  Lanny.  I  undertook  the  task 
myself.  I  must  see  it  through!" 

After  she  had  hung  up  the  receiver  her  buoyancy 
vanished.  She  leaned  against  the  wall  of  the  tunnel 
weakly.  Yes,  what  if  she  were  found  out?  She  was 
thinking  of  the  possibility  seriously  for  the  first  time. 
Yet,  for  only  a  moment  did  she  dwell  upon  it  before  she 
dismissed  it  in  sudden  reaction. 

"No  matter  what  they  do  to  me  or  what  becomes  of 
me!"  she  thought.  "I'm  a  lost  soul,  anyway.  The 
thing  is  to  serve  as  long  as  I  can — and  then  I  don't  care ! " 


XXXVII 
THUMBS  DOWN  FOR  BOUCHARD 

HAGGARD  and  at  bay,  Bouchard  faced  the  circle  of 
frowns  around  the  polished  expanse  of  that  precious 
heirloom,  the  dining-room  table  of  the  Gallands.  The 
dreaded  reckoning  of  the  apprehensions  which  kept  him 
restlessly  awake  at  night  had  come  at  the  next  staff 
council  after  the  fall  of  the  Twin  Boulder  Redoubt. 
With  the  last  approach  to  the  main  line  of  defence 
cleared,  one  chapter  of  the  war  was  finished.  But  the 
officers  did  not  manifest  the  elation  that  the  occasion 
called  for,  which  is  not  saying  that  they  were  discouraged. 
They  had  no  doubt  that  eventually  the  Grays  would 
dictate  peace  in  the  Browns'  capital.  Exactly  stated, 
their  mood  was  one  of  repressed  professional  irritation. 
Not  until  the  third  attempt  was  Twin  Boulder  Redoubt 
taken.  As  far  as  results  were  concerned,  the  nicely 
planned  first  assault  might  have  been  a  stroke  of  strategy 
by  the  Browns  to  drive  the  Grays  into  an  impassable 
fire  zone. 

"The  trouble  is  we  are  not  informed!"  exclaimed 
Turcas,  opening  his  thin  lips  even  less  than  usual,  but 
twisting  them  in  a  significant  manner  as  he  gave  his 
words  a  rasping  emphasis.  The  others  hastened  to  fol 
low  his  lead  with  equal  candor. 

"Exactly.  We  have  no  reports  of  their  artillery 
strength,  which  we  had  greatly  underestimated,"  said 
the  chief  of  artillery. 

"Our  maps  of  their  forts  could  not  be  less  correct  if 
revealed  to  us  for  purposes  of  deceit.  Again  and  again 
we  have  thought  that  we  had  them  surprised,  only  to 

357 


358  THE  LAST  SHOT 

be  surprised  ourselves.  In  short,  they  know  what  we 
are  doing  and  we  don't  know  what  they  are  doing!"  said 
the  tactical  expert. 

There  the  chief  of  the  aerostatic  division  took  the  de 
fensive. 

"They  certainly  don't  learn  our  plans  with  their  planes 
and  dirigibles!"  he  declared  energetically. 

" Hardly,  when  we  never  see  them  over  our  lines." 

"The  Browns  are  acting  on  the  defensive  in  the  air 
as  well  as  on  the  earth!" 

"But  our  own  planes  and  dirigibles  bring  little  news," 
said  Turcas.  "I  mean,  those  that  return,"  he  added 
pungently. 

"And  few  do  return.  My  men  are  not  wanting  in 
courage!"  replied  the  chief  aerostatic  officer.  "Im 
mediately  we  get  over  the  Brown  lines  the  Browns,  who 
keep  cruising  to  and  fro,  are  on  us  like  hawks.  They 
risk  anything  to  bring  us  down.  When  we  descend  low 
we  strike  the  fire  of  their  high-angle  guns,  which  are 
distributed  the  length  of  the  frontier.  I  believe  both 
their  aerial  fleet  and  their  high-angle  artillery  were 
greatly  underestimated.  Finally,  I  cannot  reduce  my 
force  too  much  in  scouting  or  they  might  take  the 
offensive." 

"Another  case  of  not  being  informed!"  concluded 
Turcas,  returning  grimly  to  his  point. 

He  looked  at  Bouchard,  and  every  one  began  looking 
at  Bouchard.  If  the  Gray  tacticians  had  been  outplayed 
by  their  opponents,  if  their  losses  for  the  ground  gained 
exceeded  calculations,  then  it  was  good  to  have  a  scape 
goat  for  their  professional  mistakes.  Bouchard  was 
Westerling's  choice  for  chief  of  intelligence.  His  blind 
loyalty  was  pleasing  to  his  superior,  who,  hitherto,  had 
promptly  silenced  any  suggestion  of  criticism  by  re 
peating  that  the  defensive  always  appeared  to  the  of 
fensive  to  be  better  informed  than  itself.  But  this  time 
Westerling  let  the  conversation  run  on  without  a  word 
of  excuse  for  his  favorite. 


THUMBS  DOWN  FOR  BOUCHARD       359 

Each  fresh  reproach  from  the  staff,  whose  opinion  was 
the  only  god  he  knew,  was  a  dagger  thrust  to  Bouchard. 
At  night  he  had  lain  awake  worrying  about  the  leak;  by 
day  he  had  sought  to  trace  it,  only  to  find  every  clew 
leading  back  to  the  staff.  Now  he  was  as  confused  in  his 
shame  as  a  sensitive  schoolboy.  Vaguely,  in  his  distress, 
he  heard  Westerling  asking  a  question,  while  he  saw  all 
those  eyes  staring  at  him. 

"What  information  have  we  about  Engadir?" 

"I  believe  it  to  be  strongly  fortified!"  stammered 
Bouchard. 

"You  believe!  You  have  no  information?"  pursued 
Westerling. 

"No,  sir,"  replied  Bouchard.  "Nothing — nothing 
new!" 

"We  do  seem  to  get  little  information,"  said  Wester 
ling,  looking  hard  and  long  at  Bouchard  in  silence — the 
combined  silence  of  the  whole  staff. 

This  public  reproof  could  have  but  one  meaning.  He 
should  soon  receive  a  note  which  would  thank  him 
politely  for  his  services,  in  the  stereotyped  phrases  al 
ways  used  for  the  purpose,  before  announcing  his  trans 
fer  to  a  less  responsible  post. 

"Very  little,  sir!"  Bouchard  replied  doggedly. 

"There  is  that  we  had  from  one  of  our  aviators  whose 
machine  came  down  in  a  smash  just  as  he  got  over  our 
infantry  positions  on  his  return,"  said  the  chief  aero 
static  officer.  "He  was  in  a  dying  condition  when  we 
picked  him  up,  and,  as  he  was  speaking  with  the  last 
breaths  in  his  body,  naturally  his  account  of  what  he 
had  seen  was  somewhat  incoherent.  It  would  be  of 
use,  however,  if  we  had  plans  of  the  forts  that  would 
enable  us  to  check  off  his  report  intelligently." 

"Yet,  what  evidence  have  we  that  Partow  or  Lanstron 
has  done  more  than  to  make  a  fortunate  guess  or  show 
military  insight? "  Westerling  asked.  "There  is  the  case 
of  my  own  belief  that  Bordir  was  weak,  which  proved 
correct." 


360  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"Last  night  we  got  a  written  telegraphic  staff  message 
from  the  body  of  a  dead  officer  of  the  Browns  found  in 
the  Twin  Boulder  Redoubt,"  said  the  vice-chief,  "which 
showed  that  in  an  hour  after  our  plans  were  transmitted 
to  our  own  troops  for  the  first  attack  they  were  known 
to  the  enemy." 

"That  looks  like  a  leak!'7  exclaimed  Westerling,  "a 
leak,  Bouchard,  do  you  hear?"  He  was  frowning  and 
his  lips  were  drawn  and  his  cheeks  mottled  with  red  in  a 
way  not  pleasant  to  see. 

Stiffening  in  his  chair,  a  flash  of  desperation  in  his 
eye,  Bouchard's  bony,  long  hand  gripped  the  table  edge. 
Every  one  felt  that  a  sensation  was  coming. 

"Yes,  I  have  known  that  there  was  a  leak!"  he  said 
with  hoarse,  painful  deliberation.  "I  have  sent  out  every 
possible  tracer.  I  have  followed  up  every  sort  of  clew. 
I  have  transferred  a  dozen  men.  I  have  left  nothing  un 
done!" 

"With  no  result?"  persisted  Westerling  impatiently. 

"Yes,  always  the  same  result:  That  the  leak  is  here 
in  this  house — here  in  the  grand  headquarters  of  the 
army  under  our  very  noses.  I  know  it  is  not  the  teleg 
raphers  or  the  clerks.  It  is  a  member  of  the  staff!" 

"Have  you  gone  out  of  your  head?"  demanded  Wes 
terling.  "What  staff -officer?  How  does  he  get  the 
information  to  the  enemy?  Name  the  persons  you  sus 
pect  here  and  now!  Explain,  if  you  want  to  be  con 
sidered  sane!" 

Here  was  the  blackest  accusation  that  could  be  made 
against  an  officer!  The  chosen  men  of  the  staff,  tested 
through  many  grades  before  they  reached  the  inner  circle 
of  cabinet  secrecy,  lost  the  composure  of  a  council. 
All  were  leaning  forward  toward  Bouchard  breathless 
for  his  answer. 

"There  are  three  women  on  the  grounds,"  said  Bou 
chard.  "I  have  been  against  their  staying  from  the 
first.  I- 

He  got  no  further.     His  words  were  drowned  by  the 


THUMBS  DOWN  FOR  BOUCHARD       361 

outburst  of  one  of  the  younger  members  of  the  staff, 
who  had  either  to  laugh  or  choke  at  the  picture  of  this 
deep-eyed,  spectral  sort  of  man,  known  as  a  woman- 
hater,  in  his  revelation  of  the  farcical  source  of  his  sus 
picions. 

"Why  not  include  Clarissa  Eileen?"  some  one  asked, 
starting  a  chorus  of  satirical  exclamations. 

"How  do  they  get  through  the  line?" 

"Yes,  past  a  wall  of  bayonets?" 

"When  not  even  a  soldier  in  uniform  is  allowed  to 
move  away  from  his  command  without  a  pass?" 

"By  wireless?" 

"Perhaps  by  telepathy!" 

"Unless,"  said  the  chief  of  the  aerostatic  division, 
grinning,  "Bouchard  lends  them  the  use  of  our  own 
wires  through  the  capital  and  around  by  the  neutral 
countries  across  the  Brown  frontier!" 

"But  the  correct  plans  and  location  of  their  forts 
and  the  numbers  of  their  heavy  guns  and  of  their  planes 
and  dirigibles — your  failure  to  have  this  information  is 
not  the  result  of  any  leak  from  our  staff  since  the  war 
began,"  said  Turcas  in  his  dry,  penetrating  voice,  clear 
ing  the  air  of  the  smoke  of  scattered  explosions. 

All  were  staring  at  Bouchard  again.  What  answer 
had  he  to  this?  He  was  in  the  box,  the  evidence  stated 
by  the  prosecutor.  Let  him  speak! 

He  was  fairly  beside  himself  in  a  paroxysm  of  rage  and 
struck  at  the  air  with  his  clenched  fist. 
Lanstron!"  he  cried. 

"There's  no  purpose  in  that.  He  can't  hear  you!" 
said  Turcas,  dryly  as  ever. 

"He  might,  through  the  leak,"  said  the  chief  aerostatic 
officer,  who  considered  that  many  of  his  gallant  subor 
dinates  had  lost  their  lives  through  Bouchard's  ineffi 
ciency.  "Perhaps  Clarissa  Eileen  has  already  telepath- 
ically  wigwagged  it  to  him." 

To  lose  your  temper  at  a  staff  council  is  most  unbe 
coming.  Turcas  would  have  kept  his  if  hit  in  the  back 


362  THE  LAST  SHOT 

by  a  fool  automobilist.  Westerling  had  now  recovered 
his.  He  was  again  the  superman  in  command. 

"It  is  for  you  and  not  for  us  to  locate  the  leak;  yes, 
for  you!"  he  said.  "That  is  all  on  the  subject  for  the 
present,"  he  added  in  a  tone  of  mixed  pity  and  contempt, 
which  left  Bouchard  freed  from  the  stare  of  his  col 
leagues  and  in  the  miserable  company  of  his  humiliation. 

All  on  the  subject  for  the  present!  When  it  was  taken 
up  again  his  successor  would  be  in  charge.  He,  the  in 
defatigable,  the  over-intense,  with  his  mediaeval  partisan 
fervor,  who  loathed  in  secret  machines  like  Turcas,  was 
the  first  man  of  the  staff  to  go  for  incompetency. 

"And  Engadir  is  the  key-point,"  Westerling  was  say 
ing. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Turcas. 

"So  we  concentrate  to  break  through  there,"  Wester 
ling  continued,  "while  we  engage  the  whole  line  fiercely 
enough  to  make  the  enemy  uncertain  where  the  crucial 
attack  is  to  be  made." 

"But,  general,  if  there  is  any  place  that  is  naturally 
strong,  that — "  Turcas  began. 

"The  one  place  where  they  are  confident  that  we  won't 
attack ! "  Westerling  interrupted.  He  resented  the  staff's 
professional  respect  for  Turcas.  After  a  silence  and  a 
survey  of  the  faces  around,  he  added  with  sententious 
effect:  "And  I  was  right  about  Bordir!" 

To  this  argument  there  could  be  no  answer.  The  one 
stroke  of  generalship  by  the  Grays,  who,  otherwise,  had 
succeeded  alone  through  repeated  mass  attacks,  had  been 
Westerling's  hypothesis  that  had  gained  Bordir  in  a  single 
assault. 

"Engadir  it  is,  then!"  said  Turcas  with  the  loyalty 
of  the  subordinate  who  makes  a  superior's  conviction 
his  own,  the  better  to  carry  it  out. 

Hazily,  Bouchard  had  heard  the  talk,  while  he  was 
looking  at  Westerling  and  seeing  him,  not  at  the  head  of 
the  council  table,  but  in  the  arbor  in  eager  appeal  to 
Marta. 


THUMBS  DOWN  FOR  BOUCHARD       363 

'I  shall  find  out!  I  shall  find  out!"  was  drumming 
in  his  temples  when  the  council  rose;  and,  without  a 
word  or  a  backward  glance,  he  was  the  first  to  leave  the 
room. 


XXXVIII 
HUNTING  GHOSTS 

IN  his  search  for  the  medium  of  the  leak  to  the  enemy 
Bouchard  had  studied  every  detail  of  the  Galland  prem 
ises  and  also  of  the  ruins  of  the  castle,  with  the  exception 
of  one  feature  mentioned  in  the  regular  staff  records, 
prepared  before  the  war,  in  the  course  of  their  minute 
description  of  the  architecture  of  buildings  which  were 
accessible  to  the  spies  of  the  Grays.  The  tunnel  to  the 
dungeons  could  be  reached  only  through  the  private 
quarters  of  the  Gallands. 

When  he  came  out  onto  the  veranda  from  the  staff 
council  a  glimpse  of  Mrs.  Galland  walking  in  the  garden 
told  him  that  one  of  the  guardians  who  stood  between 
him  and  the  satisfaction  of  his  desperate  curiosity  was 
absent.  He  started  for  the  tower  and  found  the  door 
open  and  the  sitting-room  empty.  In  his  impatience  he 
had  one  foot  across  the  threshold  before  a  prompting 
sense  of  respect  for  form  made  him  pause.  After  all, 
this  was  a  private  residence.  There  being  no  bell,  he 
rapped,  and  was  glad  that  it  was  Minna  and  not  Marta 
who  appeared.  He  watched  her  intently  for  the  effect 
of  his  abrupt  announcement  as  he  exclaimed: 

"I  want  to  go  into  the  tunnel  under  the  castle!" 

There  was  no  mistaking  her  shock  and  alarm.  Her 
lips  remained  parted  in  a  letter  0  as  a  sweep  of  breath 
escaped.  Yet,  in  the  very  process  of  recovering  her 
scattered  faculties,  her  feminine  quickness  noted  a  trium 
phant  gleam  in  his  eye.  She  knew  that  her  manner  had 
given  conviction  to  his  suspicions.  She  knew  that  she 
alone  stood  between  him  and  his  finding  Marta  talking 

364 


HUNTING  GHOSTS  365 

to  Brown  headquarters.  As  she  was  in  a  state  of  as 
tonishment,  why,  astonishment  was  her  cue.  She  ap 
peared  positively  speechless  from  it  except  for  the  emis 
sion  of  another  horrified  gasp.  Time!  time!  She  must 
hold  him  until  Marta  left  the  telephone. 

"  What  an  idea !  That  musty,  horrible,  damp  tunnel ! " 
she  exclaimed,  shuddering.  "I  never  think  of  it  without 
thinking  of  ghosts!" 

"I  am  looking  for  ghosts,"  replied  Bouchard  with 
saturnine  emphasis. 

"Oh,  don't  say  that!"  cried  Minna  distractedly. 
"Sometimes  at  night  I  hear  their  chains  clanking  and 
their  groans  and  cries  for  water,"  she  continued,  playing 
the  superstitious  and  stupid  maid  servant.  "That  is,  I 
think  I  do.  Miss  Galland  says  I  don't." 

"Does  she  go  into  the  tunnel?"  asked  Bouchard. 

"Yes,  she's  been  in  to  show  me  that  there  were  no 
ghosts,"  replied  Minna.  "But  not  the  whole  way- 
no  t  into  the  dungeons.  I  believe  she  got  frightened 
herself,  though  she  wouldn't  admit  it.  I  know  there  are 
ghosts!  She  needn't  tell  me!  Don't  you  believe  there 
are?"  she  asked  solemnly,  with  dropped  jaw. 

"I'm  going  to  find  out!"  he  said,  taking  a  step  for 
ward. 

But  Minna,  just  inside  the  doorway,  did  not  move  to 
allow  him  to  enter. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad!"  she  exclaimed.  "Then  we'll  know 
the  truth.  But  no!"  and  she  turned  wild  with  pro 
test.  "No,  no!  I  know  there  are!  It's  dangerous,  sir! 
You'd  never  come  out  alive!  Unseen  hands  would  seize 
you  and  draw  you  down  and  strangle  you — those  ter 
rible  spirits  of  the  dark  ages!" 

Her  hands  uplifted,  fingers  stretched  apart  in  terror, 
face  white  with  fear,  Minna's  distress  was  real — very 
real,  indeed! — while  she  listened  impatiently  for  Marta's 
step  in  the  adjoining  room. 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  Bouchard  in  disgust. 
"I  didn't  know  such  superstition  existed  in  this  day." 


366  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"I  didn't,  sir,  until  the  groans  and  the  clanking  of  the 
chains  kept  me  awake,"  replied  Minna. 

"Have  you  a  lantern?"  asked  Bouchard  in  exaspera 
tion. 

"A  lantern?"  repeated  Minna  blankly.  Time!  time! 
She  must  gain  time! 

"Yes,  you  gawk,  a  lantern!" 

"Certainly;  you'll  need  one,"  said  Minna — "a  big  one! 
Go  and  fetch  a  big  army  one — and  some  soldiers  to  fight 
the  ghosts.  But  what  are  soldiers  against  ghosts?  Oh, 
sir,  I  don't  like  to  think  of  you  going  at  all.  Please,  sir, 
don't,  for  the  sake  of  your  life!" 

There  Bouchard  frowned  heavily  and  his  hawk  eyes 
flashed  in  command  and  decision. 

"Enough  of  this  farce!  A  lamp,  a  candle  will  do. 
Come,  get  me  one  immediately!" 

Just  as  she  was  at  her  wits'  end  and  it  seemed  as  if 
there  were  nothing  left  to  do  but  to  scream  and  fall  in  a 
faint  in  front  of  Bouchard,  her  ear  caught  the  welcome 
sound  which  told  her  that  Marta  had  returned  from  the 
tunnel. 

"Yes,  sir.  Won't  you  come  in,  sir?  Of  course,  sir," 
she  said,  standing  aside.  "Won't  you  be  seated,  sir?" 

"Good  day,  Colonel  Bouchard!"  called  Marta,  appear 
ing  in  the  doorway. 

"He  wants  to  go  into  the  dungeons  to  see  the  ghosts!" 
Minna  exclaimed  in  a  return  of  horror  before  Bou 
chard  had  time  to  say  a  word,  while  she  screwed  up  the 
side  of  her  face  away  from  him  suggestively  to  Marta. 
"Those  terrible  ghosts!  I'm  afraid  for  him.  Like  a 
man,  he  may  go  right  into  the  dungeons,  even  if  you 
didn't  dare  to,  Miss  Galland." 

"I  wish  he  would!"  Marta  joined  in  eagerly.  "That 
might  cure  you  of  your  silly  imaginings,  Minna.  She 
actually  thinks,  Colonel  Bouchard,  that  she  hears  them 
groan  and  moan  and  even  shriek.  Didn't  you  say  they 
shrieked  as  well  as  groaned  and  moaned  once  about 
3  A.  M.?"  she  asked  jocularly. 


HUNTING  GHOSTS  367 

"A  ghost  must  be  hard  put  to  it  when  he  shrieks/* 
observed  Bouchard,  glaring  from  one  to  the  other. 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  make  fun  of  me  because 
you  have  the  advantage  of  an  education,"  said  Minna 
to  Marta,  "but  you  yourself — you " 

"Yes,  I  did  hear  what  sounded  like  moaning  voices," 
admitted  Marta  rather  sheepishly.  "But  of  course  it 
was  imagination.  Now  we  have  a  man  with  nerve 
enough  to  go  into  the  dungeons,  we'll  lay  this  ridiculous 
psychological  bugaboo  at  once;  that  is,  if  you  have  the 
nerve!"  She  arched  her  brows  in  challenging  scrutiny 
of  Bouchard,  while  her  eyes  twinkled  at  the  prospect  of 
adventure.  "I  thought  I  had,  myself,  but  before  I  got 
to  the  dungeons  the  clammy  air  wilted  it  and  I  was 
rubbing  my  eyes  to  keep  from  seeing  all  kinds  of  ap 
paritions." 

She  puzzled  Bouchard,  she  was  so  facile,  so  ready,  so 
many-sided.  But  the  more  she  puzzled  him  the  stronger 
became  his  conviction  of  her  guilt.  He  guessed  that 
all  this  talk  was  only  a  prelude  to  some  trick  to  keep 
him  out  of  the  tunnel.  Poor  at  speech  at  best,  slightly 
fussed  by  her  candid  good  humor  and  teasing,  he  hesi 
tated  as  to  his  next  remark.  He  was  going  to  be  short 
with  her  in  stating  that  he  would  go  into  the  tunnel  im 
mediately,  when  she  took  the  words  out  of  his  mouth. 

"This  way,  please.  I'm  all  impatience.  I  only  wish 
that  you  had  suggested  it  before." 

As  they  passed  out  of  the  room  Minna  leaned  against 
the  wall,  exhausted  and  wonder-struck. 

"Miss  Galland  is  beyond  me!"  she  thought.  "Does 
she  think  those  hawk  eyes  will  miss  that  little  button 
of  the  panel  door?" 

"We'll  need  a  lantern,"  said  Marta  as  she  took  up  the 
one  she  had  been  using  from  a  corner  of  the  tool  room; 
while  Bouchard,  slowly  turning  his  head  like  some  au 
tomaton,  was  examining  every  detail  of  floor  and  wall, 
spades,  hoes,  and  weeders,  for  a  hidden  significance. 
The  lantern  was  still  hot,  and  Marta's  finger  smarted 


368  THE  LAST,  SHOT 

with  a  burn,  but  she  did  not  twitch.  She  was  so  keyed 
up  that  she  felt  capable  of  walking  over  red-hot  coals, 
while  she  joked  about  ghosts.  "There!"  she  exclaimed, 
after  the  lantern  was  lighted.  "  This  is  going  to  be  great 
sport.  Ghost  hunting — think  of  that!  We  might  have 
made  a  ghost  party  Too  bad  we  didn't  think  of  it  in 
time.  Yes,  it's  a  pity  to  be  so  exclusive  about  it.  Even 
now  we  might  send  for  General  Westerling  and  some  of 
the  other  staff-officers." 

She  paused  and  looked  at  Bouchard  questioningly, 
perhaps  challengingly;  at  least,  he  thought  challengingly. 
He  had  half  a  mind  to  concur.  Could  anything  be  better 
than  to  have  Westerling  present  if  suspicions  proved 
correct?  But  no.  She  wanted  Westerling  and  that  was 
the  best  reason  why  he  should  not  be  present.  Yet  there 
was  no  sign  of  chicane  in  the  brimming  fun  of  her  eyes 
that  went  with  the  suggestion.  Bouchard's  search  for 
the  proper  words  of  dissent  left  him  rather  confused 
and  at  a  disadvantage.  With  sympathetic  quickness  she 
seemed  to  guess  his  thoughts,  and  in  a  way  that  he  found 
all  the  more  exasperating. 

"No,  no!  We're  too  impatient!  We  can't  wait,  can 
we?"  she  exclaimed.  "Let's  go.  Let's  get  the  ghosts 
single-handed,  you  and  I.  If  we  win  we'll  demand  a 
specially  large  bronze  cross  to  be  struck  for  us." 

"Yes,"  he  agreed  with  an  affectation  of  humor  that 
made  him  feel  ludicrous.  He  always  felt  ludicrous  when 
he  tried  to  be  humorous. 

"Come  on!"  said  Marta,  going  to  the  stairway. 

He  extended  his  hand  to  take  the  lantern  with  an 
"If  you  please!" 

"  No.  When  we  approach  the  enemy  I'll  let  you  lead," 
she  replied,  refusing  the  offer.  "I'll  be  only  too  glad 
then;  but  these  stairs  are  very  tricky  if  you  don't  know 
them.  Keep  watch!"  she  warned  him  as  she  started  to 
descend,  picking  her  way  slowly. 

Once  in  the  tunnel  she  held  the  lantern  a  little  back  of 
her  in  her  right  hand,  which  threw  a  shadow  to  the  left 


HUNTING  GHOSTS  369 

on  the  side  of  the  panel  door.  She  was  walking  very  fast, 
too  fast  to  please  Bouchard.  In  the  swinging  rays  he 
could  not  fly-speck  the  surroundings  with  the  care  that 
he  desired.  Yet  how  could  he  ask  her  to  slacken  her 
pace?  This  she  did  of  her  own  accord  before  they  had 
gone  far. 

"Isn't  it  damp  and  deathlike?  Think  of  it!"  she  ex 
claimed.  "No  ray  of  sunlight  has  been  in  here  since  the 
tunnel  was  dug — no,  not  even  then;  for  probably  it  was 
dug  after  the  castle  was  built.  Think  of  the  stories 
these  walls  could  tell  after  the  silence  of  centuries! 
Think  of  the  prisoners  driven  along  at  the  point  of  the 
halberd  to  slow  death  in  the  dungeons!  You  feel  their 
spirits  in  the  cold,  clammy  air."  Her  elocution  was 
excellent,  as  her  voice  sank  to  an  awed  whisper,  impress 
ing  even  Bouchard  with  a  certain  uncanniness.  Her 
steps  became  slow,  as  with  effort,  while  he  was  not  miss 
ing  a  square  inch  of  the  top,  bottom,  or  sides  of  the  tun 
nel.  "But  I'll  not— I'll  not  this  time,  when  I  have  a 
soldier  with  me.  For  once  I'll  go  to  the  end!"  she  cried 
with  forced  courage,  suddenly  starting  forward  at  a 
half  run  that  sent  the  lantern's  rays  lurching  and  dancing 
in  a  way  that  confused  the  hawk  eyes.  Then  her  burst 
of  strength  seemed  to  give  out  in  collapse  and  she  dropped 
against  the  wall  for  support,  her  back  covering  the  panel 
door. 

"I  can't!  I'm  just  foolishly,  weakly  feminine!"  she 
whispered  brokenly.  "According  to  reason  there  aren't 
any  ghosts,  I  know.  But  it  gets  on  my  nerves  too  much 
— my  imaginings!"  She  held  out  the  lantern  with  a 
trembling  hand.  "I  will  wait  here.  You  go  on  in!"  she 
begged.  "Please  do  and  show  me  what  a  fool  I  am! 
Show  that  it  is  all  a  woman's  hysteria — for  we  are  all 
hysterical,  aren't  we?  Go  into  every  dungeon,  please!" 

She  did  seem  on  the  verge  of  hysteria,  quivering  as 
she  was  from  head  to  foot.  But  Bouchard,  holding  the 
lantern  and  staring  at  her,  his  eyes  unearthly  lustrous 
in  the  yellow  rays,  hesitated  to  agree  to  the  request 


370  THE  LAST  SHOT 

because  it  was  hers.  Marta  was  not  so  near  hysteria 
that  she  did  not  divine  his  thought. 

"Has  it  got  on  your  nerves,  too?"  she  inquired.  "Are 
you,  too,  afraid?" 

"No,  I'm  not  afraid!"  replied  Bouchard  irritably. 
"But  aren't  you  afraid  to  be  left  alone  in  the  dark? 
I'll  take  you  back  to  the  sitting-room  and  you  can  wait 
there,"  he  added  with  a  show  of  gallantry,  which  she 
improved  on  with  a  flattering  if  scared  smile. 

"I'm  not  afraid  with  you  between  me  and  the  dun 
geons,"  she  said.  "I'll  hold  my  ground.  Don't  think 
me  altogether  a  craven." 

"Very  well,"  was  all  that  he  could  say.  "I  came  to 
see  the  dungeons,  and  I'll  see  them!" 

After  the  lantern  flame  grew  fainter  and  finally  disap 
peared  around  a  bend,  Marta  emitted  a  peculiar,  squeaky 
little  laugh.  It  sounded  to  her  as  if  her  own  ghost — 
the  ghost  of  her  former  self — were  laughing  in  satire. 
There  was  a  devilish,  mischievous  joy  in  battling  to 
outwit  Bouchard  more  than  in  her  deceit  of  Westerling. 
Satire,  yes — needle-pointed,  acid-tipped!  Melodrama 
done  in  burlesque,  too.  In  the  name  of  the  noble  art 
of  war,  a  bit  of  fooling  about  ghosts  in  a  tunnel  might 
influence  the  fate  of  armies  that  were  the  last  word  in 
modern  equipment.  And  men  played  at  killing  with  a 
grand  front  of  martial  dignity,  when  such  a  little  thing 
could  turn  the  balance  of  slaughter!  The  ghosts  in  the 
dungeons  seemed  about  as  real  as  anything,  except 
the  childishness  of  adult  humanity  in  organized  mass. 
She  laughed  again,  this  time  very  softly,  as  she  moved 
away  from  the  panel  door  a  few  steps  farther  along  the 
wall  toward  the  entrance  and  again  leaned  back  for 
support. 

She  had  to  wait  a  half-hour  before  she  saw  a  yellow 
flame  reappear  and  heard  the  dully  echoing  steps  of 
Bouchard  approaching.  That  tiny  push-button  on  the 
panel,  of  the  color  of  stone,  was  in  the  shadow  of  her  fig 
ure  against  the  lantern's  rays,  which  gave  a  glazed  and 


HUNTING  GHOSTS  371 

haunted  effect  to  Bouchard's  eyes,  rolling  as  he  studied 
the  walls  and  ceiling  and  floor  of  the  tunnel  in  final  baf 
fled  and  desperate  inquiry. 

"Did  you  see  anything?  Did  you  go  into  all  the 
dungeons?"  Marta  called  to  him. 

Bouchard  did  not  answer.  Perhaps  he  was  too  full 
of  disgust  for  words.  Marta,  however,  had  plenty  of 
words  in  her  impatience  for  knowledge. 

"If  there  were  you  must  have  caught  them  with  a 
quick  strangle-hold.  Or,  did  you  see  one  and  not  dare 
to  go  on?  Tell  me!  tell  me!"  she  insisted  when  he 
stopped  before  her,  his  expression  a  strange  mixture  of 
defiance  and  dissatisfaction  while  he  was  searching  the 
wall  around  her  figure.  Before  his  eye  had  any  inclina 
tion  to  look  as  far  away  from  her  as  the  button  she 
stepped  free  of  the  wall  and  laid  her  hand  on  Bouchard's 
arm.  "I  can't  wait!  I've  nearly  perished  of  suspense !" 
she  cried.  "I'm  just  dying  to  know  what  you  found. 
Please  tell  me!" 

Meanwhile,  she  was  looking  into  his  eyes,  which  were 
eagerly  devouring  the  spot  that  her  figure  had  hidden. 
He  saw  nothing  but  bare  stone.  Marta  slipped  her 
hand  behind  her  and  began  brushing  her  back. 

"My  gown  must  be  a  sight!"  she  exclaimed.  "But  I 
do  believe  you  saw  a  ghost  and  that  he  struck  you 
speechless!" 

"No!"  exploded  Bouchard.    "No,  I  saw  nothing!" 

"Nothing!"  she  repeated.  She  half  turned  to  go. 
He  passed  by  her  with  the  lantern,  while  she  kept  to 
the  side  of  the  wall  which  held  the  button,  covering  it 
with  her  shadow  successfully.  "Nothing!  No  bones, 
no  skulls — not  even  any  anklets  fastened  by  chains  to  the 
clammy,  wet  stones?" 

"Yes,  just  an  ordinary  set  of  Middle  Age  dungeons 
and  some  staples  in  the  walls!"  he  grumbled. 

This  was  no  news  to  her  as,  with  Minna  for  company, 
she  had  explored  all  the  underground  passages. 

"Wonderful!    I  suppose  a  little  courage  will  always 


372  THE  LAST  SHOT 

lay  ghosts!"  She  even  found  it  difficult  to  conceal  a 
note  of  triumph  in  her  tone,  for  the  button  was  now  well 
behind  them.  "It's  all  right,  Minna;  there  aren't  any 
ghosts!"  she  called  as  they  entered  the  sitting-room. 
And  Minna,  in  the  kitchen,  covered  her  mouth  lest  she 
should  scream  for  joy. 

"Thank  you!"  said  Bouchard  grudgingly  as  Marta 
saw  him  to  the  door. 

"On  the  contrary,  thank  you!  It  was  such  fun — if  I 
hadn't  been  so  scared,"  replied  Marta,  and  their  gaze 
held  each  other  fast  in  a  challenge,  hers  beaming  good 
nature  and  his  saturnine  in  its  rebuff  and  a  hound-like 
tenacity  of  purpose,  saying  plainly  that  his  suspicions 
were  not  yet  laid. 

When  Bouchard  returned  to  his  desk  he  guessed  the 
contents  of  the  note  awaiting  him,  but  he  took  a  long 
time  to  read  its  stereotyped  expressions  in  transferring 
him  to  perfunctory  duty  well  to  the  rear  of  the  army. 
Then  he  pulled  himself  together  and,  leaden-hearted, 
settled  down  to  arrange  routine  details  for  his  departure, 
while  the  rest  of  the  staff  was  immersed  in  the  activity 
of  the  preparations  for  the  attack  on  Engadir.  He  knew 
that  he  could  not  sleep  if  he  lay  down.  So  he  spent  the 
night  at  work.  In  the  morning  his  successor,  a  young 
man  whom  he  himself  had  chosen  and  trained,  Colonel 
Bellini,  appeared,  and  the  fallen  man  received  the  rising 
man  with  forced  official  courtesy. 

"In  my  own  defence  and  for  your  aid,"  he  said,  "I 
show  you  a  copy  of  what  I  have  just  written  to  General 
Westerling. 

A  brief  note  it  was,  in  farewell,  beginning  with  con 
ventional  thanks  for  Westerling's  confidence  in  the  past. 

"I  am  punished  for  being  right,"  it  concluded.  "It 
is  my  belief  that  Miss  Galland  sends  news  to  the  enemy 
and  that  she  draws  it  from  you  without  your  conscious 
ness  of  the  fact.  I  tell  you  honestly.  Do  what  you  will 
with  me." 

It  took  more  courage  than  any  act  of  his  life  for  the 


HUNTING  GHOSTS  373 

loyal  Bouchard  to  dare  such  candor  to  a  superior. 
Seeing  the  patchy,  yellow,  bloodless  face  drawn  in 
stiff  lines  and  the  abysmal  stare  of  the  deep-set  eyes  in 
their  bony  recesses,  Bellini  was  swept  with  a  wave  of 
sympathy. 

"Thank  you,  Bouchard.  You've  been  very  fine!" 
said  Bellini  as  he  grasped  Bouchard's  hand,  which  was 
icy  cold. 

"My  duty — my  duty,  in  the  hope  that  we  shall  kill 
two  Browns  for  every  Gray  who  has  fallen — that  we 
shall  yet  see  them  starved  and  besieged  and  crying  for 
mercy  in  their  capital,"  replied  Bouchard.  He  saluted 
with  a  dismal,  urgent  formality  and  stalked  out  of  the 
room  with  the  tread  of  the  ghost  of  Hamlet's  father. 

The  strange  impression  that  this  farewell  left  with 
Bellini  still  lingered  when,  a  few  moments  later,  Wester- 
ling  summoned  him.  Not  alone  the  diffidence  of  a 
new  member  of  the  staff  going  into  the  Presence  ac 
counted  for  the  stir  in  his  temples,  as  he  waited  till 
some  papers  were  signed  before  he  had  Westerling's  at 
tention.  Then  Westerling  picked  up  Bouchard's  note 
and  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"Poor  Bouchard!  You  can  see  for  yourself,"  and  he 
handed  the  note  to  Bellini.  "I  should  have  realized 
earlier  that  it  was  a  case  for  the  doctor  and  not  for 
reprimand.  Mad!  Poor  Bouchard!  He  hadn't  the 
ability  or  the  resiliency  of  mind  for  his  task,  as  I  hope 
you  have,  colonel." 

"I  hope  so,  sir,"  replied  Bellini. 

"I've  no  doubt  you  have,"  said  Westerling.  "You 
are  my  choice!" 


XXXIX 
A  CHANGE  OF  PLAN 

THAT  day  and  the  next  Westerling  had  no  time  for 
strolling  in  the  garden.  His  only  exercise  was  a  few 
periods  of  pacing  on  the  veranda.  Turcas,  as  tirelessly 
industrious  as  ever,  developed  an  increasingly  quiet  in 
sistence  to  leave  the  responsibility  of  decisions  about 
everything  of  importance  to  a  chief  who  was  becoming 
increasingly  arbitrary.  The  attack  on  Engadir  being 
the  jewel  of  Westerling's  own  planning,  he  was  disin 
clined  to  risk  success  by  delegating  authority,  which  also 
meant  sharing  the  glory  of  victory. 

Bouchard's  note,  though  officially  dismissed  as  a 
matter  of  pathology,  would  not  accept  dismissal  pri 
vately.  In  flashes  of  distinctness  it  recurred  to  him  be 
tween  reports  of  the  progress  of  preparations  and  di 
rections  as  to  dispositions.  At  dusk  of  the  second  day, 
when  all  the  guns  and  troops  had  their  places  for  the 
final  movement  under  cover  of  darkness  and  he  rose 
from  his  desk,  the  thing  that  had  edged  its  way  into  a 
crowded  mind  took  possession  of  the  premises  that 
strategy  and  tactics  had  vacated.  It  passed  under  the 
same  analysis  as  his  work.  His  overweening  pride,  so 
sensitive  to  the  suspicion  of  a  conviction  that  he  had 
been  fooled,  put  his  relations  with  Marta  in  logical  re 
view. 

He  had  fallen  in  love  in  the  midst  of  war.  This  fact 
was  something  that  his  egoism  must  resent.  Any 
woman  who  had  struck  such  a  response  in  him  as  she 
had  must  have  great  depths.  Had  she  depths  that  he 
had  not  fathomed?  He  recalled  her  sudden  change  of 

374 


A  CHANGE  OF  PLAN  375 

attitude  toward  war,  her  conversion  to  the  cause  of 
the  Grays,  and  her  charm  in  this  as  in  all  their  relations. 

Was  it  conceivable  that  the  change  was  not  due  to  a 
personal  feeling  for  him?  Was  her  charm  a  charm  with 
a  purpose?  Had  he,  the  chief  of  staff,  been  beguiled  into 
making  a  woman  his  confidant  in  military  secrets? 
Just  what  had  he  told  her?  He  could  not  recollect 
anything  definite  and  recollection  was  the  more  difficult 
because  he  could  not  call  to  mind  a  single  pertinent 
military  question  that  she  had  ever  asked  him.  Such 
information  as  he  might  have  imparted  had  been  in 
cidental  to  their  talks. 

He  had  enveloped  her  in  glamour;  his  most  preciously 
trained  mental  qualities  lapsed  in  her  presence.  It  was 
time  that  she  was  regarded  impersonally,  as  a  woman, 
by  the  critical  eye  of  the  chief  of  staff.  A  cool  and  in 
tense  impatience  possessed  him  to  study  her  in  the  light 
of  his  new  scepticism,  when,  turning  the  path  of  the  first 
terrace,  he  saw  her  watching  the  sunset  over  the  crest 
of  the  range. 

She  was  standing  quite  still,  a  slim,  soft  shadow  be 
tween  him  and  the  light,  which  gilded  her  figure  and 
quarter  profile.  Did  she  expect  him?  he  wondered. 
Was  she  posing  at  that  instant  for  his  benefit?  And  the 
answer,  could  he  have  searched  her  secret  brain,  was, 
Yes — yes,  if  the  conscious  and  the  subconscious  mind  are 
to  be  considered  as  one  responsible  intelligence.  He 
usually  came  at  that  hour.  But  he  had  not  come  last 
night.  They  had  not  met  since  Bouchard's  ghost  hunt. 

There  was  no  firing  near  by;  only  desultory  artillery 
practice  in  the  distance.  She  heard  the  familiar  crunch  of 
five  against  three  on  the  gravel.  She  knew  that  he  had 
stopped  at  the  turn  of  the  path,  and  she  was  certain  that 
he  was  looking  at  her!  But  she  did  not  make  the  slight 
est  movement.  The  golden  light  continued  to  caress  her 
profile.  Then,  crunch,  crunch,  rather  slowly,  the  five 
against  three  drew  nearer.  The  delay  had  been  welcome; 
it  had  been  to  her  a  moment's  respite  to  get  her  breath 


376  THE  LAST  SHOT 

before  entering  the  lists.  When  she  turned,  her  face  in 
the  shadow,  the  glow  of  the  sunset  seemed  to  remain  in 
her  eyes,  otherwise  without  expression,  yet  able  to  detect 
something  unusual  under  externals  as  they  exchanged 
commonplaces  of  greeting. 

"Well,  there's  a  change  in  our  official  family.  We 
have  lost  Bouchard — transferred  to  another  post!"  said 
Westerling. 

Marta  noted  that,  though  he  gave  the  news  a  casual 
turn,  his  scrutiny  sharpened. 

"Is  that  so?  I  can't  say  that  my  mother  and  I  shall 
be  sorry,"  she  remarked.  "He  was  always  glaring  at 
us  as  if  he  wished  us  out  of  his  sight.  Indeed,  if  he  had 
his  way,  I  think  he  would  have  made  us  prisoners  of 
war.  Wasn't  he  a  woman-hater?"  she  concluded,  half 
in  irritation,  half  in  amusement. 

"He  had  that  reputation,"  said  Westerling.  "What 
do  you  think  led  to  his  departure?"  he  continued. 

"I  confess  I  cannot  guess!"  said  Marta,  with  a  look 
at  the  sunset  glow  as  if  she  resented  the  loss  of  a  minute 
of  it. 

"There  has  been  a  leak  of  information  to  the  Browns! " 
he  announced. 

"There  has!  And  he  was  intelligence  officer,  wasn't 
he?"  she  asked,  turning  to  Westerling,  her  curiosity  ap 
parently  roused  as  a  matter  of  courtesy  to  his  own  in 
terest  in  the  subject. 

"Who  do  you  think  he  accused?  Why,  yo uy"  he 
added,  with  a  peculiar  laugh. 

She  noted  the  peculiarity  of  the  laugh  discriminat 
ingly. 

"Oh!"  Her  eyes  opened  wide  in  wonder — only  won 
der,  at  first.  Then,  as  comprehension  took  the  place  of 
wonder,  they  grew  sympathetic.  "That  explains!"  she 
exclaimed.  "His  hateful  glances  were  those  of  delusion. 
He  was  going  mad,  you  mean?" 

"Yes,"  said  Westerling,"  that— that  would  explain  it ! " 

"I  have  been  told  that  when  people  go  mad  they 


A  CHANGE  OF  PLAN  377 

always  ascribe  every  injury  done  to  them  to  the  person 
who  happens  to  have  excited  their  dislike,"  she  mused. 

"Which  seems  to  have  been  the  case  here,"  Wester- 
ling  assented.  He  did  not  know  what  else  to  say. 

"It  was  the  strain  of  war,  wasn't  it?"  Marta  pro 
ceeded  thoughtfully.  "I  notice  that  all  the  staff-officers 
are  showing  it;  that  is,"  she  added  on  second  thought, 
quite  literally,  as  she  regarded  him  for  an  instant  of 
silence,  "all  except  you.  You  remain  the  same,  calm 
and  decisive."  There  she  looked  away  with  a  flutter 
of  her  lashes,  as  if  she  were  shamed  at  having  allowed 
herself  to  be  caught  in  open  admiration  of  him.  "Look! 
The  last  effulgence  of  rose!"  she  went  on  hurriedly  about 
the  sunset.  "Why  shouldn't  we  think  of  the  sky  as 
heaven,  as  Nirvana?  What  better  immortality  than  to 
be  absorbed  into  that?" 

"None!"  he  agreed,  but  he  was  looking  at  her  rather 
than  at  the  sky.  His  pride  was  recovering  its  natural 
confidence  in  the  infallibility  of  his  judgment  of  human 
beings.  He  was  seeing  his  suspicions  as  ridiculous 
enough  to  convict  him  of  a  brain  as  disordered  as  Bou 
chard's. 

Marta  was  thinking  that  she  had  been  skating  on  very 
thin  ice  and  that  she  must  go  on  skating  till  she  broke 
through.  There  was  an  exhilaration  about  it  that  she 
could  not  resist:  the  exhilaration  of  risk  and  the  control 
of  her  faculties,  prompted  by  a  purpose  hypnotically 
compelling.  Both  were  silent,  she  watching  the  sky,  he 
in  anticipation  and  suspense.  The  rose  went  violet 
and  the  shadows  over  the  range  deepened. 

"The  guns  and  the  troops  wait.  With  darkness  the 
music  begins!"  he  said  slowly,  with  a  sort  of  stern  fervor. 

"The  music — the  music!  He  calls  it  music!"  ran 
through  Marta's  mind  mockingly,  but  she  did  not  open 
her  lips. 

"According  to  my  plan— and  your  plan!"  he  added. 

"My  plan — my  plan!"  she  thought.  Her  plan  that 
was  to  send  men  into  a  shambles! 


378  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"They  wait,  ready,  every  detail  arranged,"  he  con 
tinued  proudly. 

The  violet  melted  into  an  inky  blue;  silence,  vast, 
heavy,  prevailed — silence  where  the  millions  lay  on 
their  arms.  Even  the  guns  in  the  distance  had  ceased 
their  echoing  rumble.  He  felt  the  power  of  her  presence 
and  of  the  moment.  It  was  she  who  had  given  the  in 
formation  that  had  enabled  him  to  confound  the  scep 
ticism  of  the  staff  by  the  easy  taking  of  Bordir.  Through 
her  he  might  repeat  Bordir  in  a  larger  way  at  Engadir, 
proving  his  theories  of  frontal  attack.  His  courage  of 
initiative  would  shine  out  against  the  background  of  his 
staff's  scepticism  as  a  light  to  the  world's  imagination. 
The  first  great  man  in  forty  years;  the  genius  of  the 
new  system  of  tactics  to  meet  the  demands  of  a  new  age 
as  Napoleon  had  met  those  of  his,  Grant  of  his,  and 
Von  Moltke  of  his!  Engadir  taken,  and  his  place  on 
Valhalla  would  be  secure. 

The  very  silence  with  its  taut  expectancy  was  of  his 
planning.  Alone  with  her  he  waited  for  the  thunders 
of  his  planning  that  were  to  break  it.  The  sky  merged 
into  the  shadows  of  the  landscape  that  spread  and 
thickened  into  blackness.  Out  of  the  drawn  curtains 
of  night  broke  an  ugly  flash  and  farther  up  the  slope 
spread  the  explosive  circle  of  light  of  a  bursting  shell. 

"The  signal!"  he  exclaimed. 

Right  and  left  the  blasts  spread  along  the  Gray  lines 
and  right  and  left,  on  the  instant,  the  Browns  sent  their 
blasts  in  reply.  Countless  tongues  of  flame  seemed  to 
burst  from  countless  craters,  and  the  range  to  rock  in  a 
torment  of  crashes.  In  the  intervening  space  between 
the  ugly,  savage  gusts  from  the  Gray  gun  mouths,  which 
sent  their  shells  from  the  midst  of  exploding  Brown 
shells,  swept  the  beams  of  the  Brown  search-lights,  their 
rays  lost  like  sunlight  in  the  vortex  of  an  open  furnace 
door. 

"Splendid!  splendid!"  exclaimed  Westerling,  in  a 
sweep  of  emotion  at  the  sight  that  had  been  born  of  his 


A  CHANGE  OF  PLAN  379 

command.  "Five  thousand  guns  on  our  side  alone! 
The  world  has  never  seen  the  equal  of  this!" 

"Five  thousand  guns!"  Mart  a  was  thinking.  What 
wouldn't  their  cost  have  bought  in  books,  in  gardens, 
and  in  playgrounds!  Every  shot  the  price  of  a  year's 
schooling  for  a  child! 

"You  see,  we  are  pounding  them  along  the  whole 
frontier  quite  impartially,  so  they  shall  not  know  where 
we  are  going  to  press  home  the  attack!"  he  continued. 

"But  they  do  know!  I've  told  them!"  shot  the  burn 
ing  arrow  of  mockery  through  Marta's  brain. 

"Their  search-lights  are  watching  for  the  infantry— 
and  we  shall  press  the  infantry  forward,  too,"  he  added; 
"everywhere  we  make  a  show  of  fight!" 

Then  it  occurred  vividly  to  her,  as  a  sudden  discovery 
in  the  midst  of  the  blinding  display,  that  this  was  not  a 
kind  of  chaos  like  that  of  the  beginning  of  the  world, 
not  nature's  own  elemental  debauch,  but  men  firing 
guns  and  men  waiting  for  the  charge  under  that  spray 
of  death-dealing  missiles. 

"Splendid!   splendid!"  he  repeated. 

Marta  looked  away  from  the  range  to  his  face,  very 
distinct  in  the  garish  illumination.  It  was  the  face  of 
a  maestro  of  war  seeing  all  his  rehearsals  and  all  his 
labors  come  true  in  symphonic  gratification  to  the  eye 
and  ear;  the  face  of  a  man  of  trained  mind,  the  product 
of  civilization,  with  the  elation  of  a  party  leader  on  the 
floor  of  a  parliament  in  a  crisis. 

"Soon,  now!"  said  Westerling,  and  looked  at  his 
watch. 

Shortly,  in  the  direction  of  Engadir,  to  the  rear  of  the 
steady  flashes  broke  forth  line  after  line  of  flashes  as 
the  long-range  batteries,  which  so  far  had  been  silent, 
joined  their  mightier  voices  to  the  chorus,  making  a  con 
tinuous  leaping  burst  of  explosions  over  the  Brown 
positions,  which  were  the  real  object  of  the  attack. 

"The  moment  I've  lived  for!"  exclaimed  Westerling. 
"Our  infantry  is  starting  up  the  apron  of  Engadir!  We 


380  THE  LAST  SHOT 

held  back  the  fire  of  the  heavy  guns  concentrated  for  the 
purpose  of  supporting  the  men  with  an  outburst.  Three 
hundred  heavy  guns  pouring  in  their  shells  on  a  space 
of  two  acres!  We're  tearing  their  redoubts  to  pieces! 
They  can't  see  to  fire !  They  can't  live  under  it !  They're 
in  the  crater  of  a  volcano!  When  our  infantry  is  on  the 
edge  of  the  wreckage  the  guns  cease.  Our  infantry 
crowd  in — crowd  into  the  house  that  Partow  built.  He'll 
find  that  numbers  count ;  that  the  power  of  modern  gun 
fire  will  open  the  way  for  infantry  in  masses  to  take  and 
hold  vital  tactical  positions!  And — no — no,  their  fire 
in  reply  is  not  as  strong  as  I  expected.'' 

"Because  they  are  letting  you  in!  It  will  be  strong 
enough  in  due  season!"  thought  Marta  in  the  uncontrol 
lable  triumph  of  antagonism.  Five  against  three  was  in 
his  tone  and  in  every  line  of  his  features. 

"It's  hard  for  a  soldier  to  leave  a  sight  like  this,  but 
the  real  news  will  be  awaiting  me  at  my  desk,"  he  con 
cluded,  adding,  as  he  turned  away:  "  It's  fireworks  worth 
seeing,  and  if  you  remain  here  I  will  return  to  tell  you 
the  results." 

She  had  no  thought  of  going.  That  arc  of  dreadful 
lightnings  held  her  with  ghastly  fascination.  Suddenly 
all  the  guns  ceased.  Faintly  in  the  distance  she  heard  a 
tumult  of  human  voices  in  the  high  notes  of  a  savage 
cheer;  the  rattling  din  of  rifles;  the  purring  of  auto 
matics;  and  then,  except  for  the  firefly  flashes  of  scat 
tered  shots  around  Engadir,  silence  and  darkness.  But 
she  knew  that  chaos  would  soon  be  loosed  again — chaos 
and  murder,  which  were  the  product  of  her  own  chican 
ery.  The  Grays  would  find  themselves  in  the  trap  of 
Partow's  and  Lanny's  planning. 

Turning  her  back  to  the  range  for  the  moment,  she 
saw  the  twinkle  of  the  lights  of  the  town  and  the  threads 
of  light  of  the  wagon-trains  and  the  sweep  of  the  lights 
of  the  railroad  trains  on  the  plain ;  while  in  the  foreground 
every  window  of  the  house  was  ablaze,  like  some  factory 
on  a  busy  night  shift.  She  could  hear  the  click  of  the 


A  CHANGE  OF  PLAN  381 

telegraph  instruments  already  reporting  the  details  of 
the  action  as  cheerfully  as  Brobdingnagian  crickets  in 
their  peaceful  surroundings.  Then  out  of  the  shadows 
Westerling  reappeared. 

"The  apron  of  Engadir  is  ours!"  he  called.  "Thanks 
to  you!"  he  added  with  pointed  emphasis.  Back  in  the 
house  he  had  received  congratulations  with  a  nod,  as  if 
success  were  a  matter  of  course.  Before  her,  exultation 
unbent  stiffness,  and  he  was  hoarsely  triumphant  and 
eager.  "It's  plain  sailing  now,"  he  went  on.  "A  break 
in  the  main  line!  We  have  only  to  drive  home  the 
wedge,  and  then — and  then!"  he  concluded. 

She  felt  him  close,  his  breath  on  her  cheek. 

"Peace!"  she  hastened  to  say,  drawing  back  instinc 
tively. 

And  then!  The  irony  of  the  words  in  the  light  of  her 
knowledge  was  pointed  by  a  terrific  renewal  of  the 
thunders  and  the  flashes  far  up  on  the  range,  and  she 
could  not  resist  rejoicing  in  her  heart. 

"That's  the  Browns!"  exclaimed  Westerling  in  sur 
prise. 

The  volume  ofg  fire  increased.  With  the  rest  of  the 
frontier  in  darkne'ss,  the  Engadir  section  was  an  isolated 
blaze.  In  its  light  she  saw  his  features,  without  alarm 
but  hardening  in  dogged  intensity. 

"They've  awakened  to  what  they  have  lost!  They 
have  been  rushing  up  reserves  and  are  making  a  counter 
attack.  We  must  hold  what  we  have  gained,  no  matter 
what  the  cost!" 

His  last  sentence  was  spoken  over  his  shoulder  as  he 
started  for  the  house. 

Thus  more  fire  called  for  more  fire;  more  murder  for 
more  murder,  she  thought.  Her  mind  was  projected 
into  the  thick  of  the  battle.  She  saw  a  panic  of  Grays 
caught  in  their  triumph;  of  wounded  men  writhing  and 
crawling  over  their  dead  comrades,  their  position  shown 
to  the  marksmen  by  a  search-light's  glare.  The  dead 
grew  thicker;  their  glassy  eyes  were  staring  at  her  in 


382  THE  LAST  SHOT 

reproach.  She  heard  the  hoarse  and  straining  voices  of 
the  Browns  in  their  "God  with  us!"  through  the  din  of 
automatics.  Men  snuggled  for  cover  amidst  torn  flesh 
and  red-tinged  mud  in  the  trenches,  and  other  men 
trampled  them  in  fiendish  risk  of  life  to  take  more 
lives. 

Without  changing  her  position,  hardly  turning  her 
head,  she  watched  until  the  firing  began  to  lessen  rapidly. 
Then  she  breathed,  "Engadir  must  be  ours  again!" 
and  realized  that  she  was  weak  and  faint.  Suspense 
had  sapped  her  strength.  She  sought  a  seat  in  the  arbor, 
where  the  nervous  force  of  other  thoughts  revived  her. 
What  would  Westerling  say  when  he  found  that  her  in 
formation  had  led  his  men  into  a  trap — when  staff  scep 
ticism  was  proven  right  and  he  a  false  prophet? 

From  the  house  came  the  confused  sound  of  voices  in 
puzzling  chorus.  It  was  not  a  cheer.  It  had  the  quality 
of  a  rapid  fire  of  jubilant  exclamation  as  a  piece  of  news 
was  passed  from  lip  to  lip.  Then  she  heard  that  step 
which  she  knew  so  well.  Sensitive  ears  noted  that  it 
touched  the  gravel  with  unusual  energy  and  quickness, 
which  she  thought  must  be  due  to  vexation  over  the  re 
pulse.  She  rose  to  face  him,  summoning  back  the  spirit 
of  the  actress. 

"This  is  better  yet!  I  came  to  tell  you  that  the  coun 
ter-attack  failed!"  he  said  as  he  saw  her  appear  from 
the  shelter  of  the  arbor. 

She  wondered  if  she  were  going  to  fall.  But  the  post 
of  the  trellis  was  within  reach.  She  caught  hold  of  it  to 
steady  herself.  Failed!  All  her  acting  had  served  only 
to  make  such  a  trap  for  the  Browns  as  Lanny  had 
planned  for  the  Grays !  She  was  grateful  for  the  darkness 
that  hid  her  face,  which  was  incapable  of  any  expression 
now  but  blank  despair.  Westerling's  figure  loomed  very 
large  to  her  as  she  regained  her  self-possession — large, 
dominant,  unconquerable  in  the  suggestion  of  five  against 
three.  And  felicitations  were  due!  She  drew  away  from 
the  post,  swaying  and  trembling,  nerves  and  body  not 


A  CHANGE  OF  PLAN  383 

yet  under  command  of  mind.  She  could  not  force  her 
tongue  to  so  false  a  sentiment  as  congratulation. 

"The  killing — it  must  have  been  terrible!"  her  mind 
at  last  made  her  exclaim  to  cover  her  tardiness  of  re 
sponse  to  his  mood. 

"You  thought  of  that — as  you  should — as  I  do!"  he 
said. 

He  took  her  hands  in  his,  pulsing  warm  with  the  flow 
ing  red  of  his  strength.  She  let  them  remain  lifelessly, 
as  if  she  had  not  the  will  to  take  them  away,  the  instinct 
of  her  part  again  dominant.  To  him  this  was  another 
victory,  and  it  was  discovery — the  discovery  of  melting 
weakness  in  her  for  the  first  time,  which  magnified  his 
sense  of  masculine  power.  He  tightened  his  grip  slightly 
and  she  shuddered. 

"You  are  tired!"  he  said,  and  it  hurt  her  that  he 
could  be  so  considerate. 

"The  killing— to  end  that!  It's  that  I  want!"  she 
breathed  miserably. 

"And  the  end  is  near!"  he  said.  "Yes,  now,  thanks 
to  you!" 

Thanks  to  her!  And  she  must  listen  and  submit  to 
his  touch! 

"The  engineers  and  material  were  ready  to  go  in," 
he  continued.  "Before  morning,  as  I  had  planned,  we 
shall  be  so  well  fortified  in  the  position  that  nothing  can 
budge  us.  This  success  so  strengthens  my  power  with 
the  staff  and  the  premier  that  I  need  not  wait  on  Fabian 
tactics.  I  am  supreme.  I  shall  make  the  most  of  the 
demoralization  of  this  blow  to  the  enemy.  I  shall  not 
wait  on  slow  approaches  in  the  hope  of  saving  life.  To 
morrow  I  shall  attack  and  keep  on  attacking  till  all  the 
main  line  is  ours." 

"Now  you  are  playing  your  real  part,  the  conqueror!" 
she  thought  gladly.  "Your  kind  of  peace  is  the  ruin  of 
another  people;  the  peace  of  a  helpless  enemy.  That  is 
better" — better  for  her  conscience.  Unwittingly,  she 
allowed  her  hands  to  remain  in  his.  In  the  paralysis 


384  THE  LAST  SHOT 

of  despair  she  was  unconscious  that  she  had  hands. 
She  felt  that  she  could  endure  anything  to  retrieve  the 
error  into  which  she  had  been  the  means  of  leading  the 
Browns.  And  the  killing — it  would  not  stop,  she  knew. 
No,  the  Browns  would  not  yield  until  they  were  dec 
imated. 

"  We  have  the  numbers  to  spare.  Numbers  shall  press 
home — home  to  terms  in  their  capital!"  Westerling's 
voice  grew  husky  as  he  proceeded,  harsh  as  orders  to 
soldiers  who  hesitated  in  face  of  fire.  "  After  that- 
after  that" — the  tone  changed  from  harshness  to  de 
sire,  which  was  still  the  desire  of  possession — "the  fruits 
of  peace,  a  triumph  that  I  want  you  to  share!"  He  was 
drawing  her  toward  him  with  an  impulse  of  the  force  of 
this  desire,  when  she  broke  free  with  an  abrupt,  strug 
gling  pull. 

"Not  that!  Not  that!  Your  work  is  not  yet  done!" 
she  cried. 

He  made  a  move  as  if  to  persist,  then  fell  back  with  a 
gesture  of  understanding. 

"Right!  Hold  me  to  it!"  he  exclaimed  resolutely. 
"Hold  me  to  the  bargain!  So  a  woman  worth  while 
should  hold  a  man  worth  while."  .  . 

"Yes!"  she  managed  to  say,  and  turned  to  go  in  a 
sudden  impetus  of  energy.  His  egoism  might  ascribe 
her  precipitancy  to  a  fear  of  succumbing  to  the  tender 
ness  which  he  thought  that  she  felt  for  him,  when  her 
one  wish  was  to  be  free  of  him ;  her  one  rallying  and  tem 
pestuous  purpose  of  the  moment  to  reach  the  telephone. 

Mrs.  Galland  and  Minna  saw  her  ghostlike  as  she 
passed  through  the  living-room,  their  startled  questions 
unheeded.  Could  it  be  true  that  she  had  betrayed  every 
decent  attribute  of  a  woman  in  vain?  Why  had  the 
counter-attack  failed?  Because  Westerling  had  been  too 
strong,  too  clever,  for  old  Partow?  Because  God  was 
still  with  the  heaviest  battalions?  Half  running,  half 
stumbling,  the  light  of  the  lantern  bobbing  and  trembling 
weirdly,  she  hastened  through  the  tunnel.  Usually  the 


A  CHANGE  OF  PLAN  385 

time  from  taking  the  receiver  down  till  Lanny  replied 
was  only  a  half  minute.  Now  she  waited  what  seemed 
many  minutes  without  response.  Had  the  connection 
been  broken?  To  make  sure  that  her  impatience  was 
not  tricking  her  she  began  to  count  off  the  seconds. 
Then  she  heard  Lanstron's  voice,  broken  and  hoarse: 

"Marta,  Marta,  he  is  dead!    Partow  is  dead!" 

Recovering  himself,  Lanstron  told  the  story  of  Par- 
tow's  going,  which  was  in  keeping  with  his  life  and  his 
prayers.  As  the  doctor  put  it,  the  light  of  his  mind, 
turned  on  full  voltage  to  the  last,  went  out  without  a 
flicker.  Through  the  day  he  had  attended  to  the  dis 
positions  for  receiving  the  Grays'  attack,  enlivening 
routine  as  usual  with  flashes  of  humor  and  reflection 
ranging  beyond  the  details  in  hand.  An  hour  or  so 
before  dark  he  had  reached  across  the  table  and  laid  his 
big,  soft  palm  on  the  back  of  Lanstron's  hand.  He  was 
thinking  aloud,  a  habit  of  his,  in  Lanstron's  company, 
when  an  idea  requiring  gestation  came  to  him. 

"My  boy,  it  is  not  fatal  if  we  lose  the  apron  of  Engadir. 
The  defences  behind  it  are  very  strong." 

"No,  not  fatal,"  Lanstron  agreed.  "But  it's  very 
important." 

"And  Westerling  will  think  it  fatal.  Yes,  I  under 
stand  his  character.  Yes — yes;  and  if  our  counter 
attack  should  fail,  then  Miss  Galland's  position  would  be 
secure.  Hm-m-m — those  whom  the  gods  would  destroy 
— hm-m-m.  Westerling  will  be  convinced  that  repeated, 
overwhelming  attacks  will  gain  our  main  line.  Instead 
of  using  engineering  approaches,  he  will  throw  his  bat 
talions,  masses  upon  masses,  against  our  works  until  his 
strength  is  spent.  It  would  be  baiting  the  bull.  A 
risk — a  risk — but,  my  boy,  I  am  going  to— 

Partow's  head,  which  was  bent  in  thought,  dropped 
with  a  jerk.  A  convulsion  shook  him  and  he  fell  for 
ward  onto  the  map,  his  brave  old  heart  in  its  last  flutter, 
and  Lanstron  was  alone  in  the  silent  room  with  the  dead 
and  his  responsibility. 


386  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"The  order  that  I  knew  he  was  about  to  speak,  Marta, 
I  gave  for  him/'  Lanstron  concluded.  "It  seemed  to 
me  an  inspiration — his  last  inspiration — to  make  the 
counter-attack  a  feint." 

"And  you're  acting  chief  of  staff,  Lanny?  You  against 
Westerling?" 

"Yes." 


XL 
WITH  FRACASSE'S  MEN 


WE  have  heard  nothing  of  Jacob  Pilzer,  the  butcher's 
son,  and  Peterkin,  the  valet's  son,  and  others  of  Fra- 
casse's  company  of  the  i28th  of  the  Grays  since  Hugo 
Mallin  threw  down  his  rifle  when  they  were  firing  on 
scattered  Brown  soldiers  in  retreat. 

It  was  in  one  of  the  minor  actions  of  the  step-by-step 
advance  after  the  taking  of  the  Galland  house  that  the 
judge's  son  received  official  notice  of  a  holiday  in  the 
form  of  a  nickel  pellet  from  the  Browns  which  made  a 
clean,  straight  hole  the  size  of  a  lead  pencil  through  his 
flesh  and  then  went  singing  on  its  way  without  deflec 
tion,  as  if  it  liked  to  give  respites  from  travail  to  tired 
soldiers. 

" Grazed  the  ribs — no  arteries!"  remarked  the  exam 
ining  surgeon.  "You'll  be  well  in  a  month." 

" We'll  hold  the  war  for  you!"  called  the  banker's  son 
cheerily  after  the  still  figure  on  the  stretcher. 

"And  you'll  get  gruel  and  custards,  maybe,"  said  the 
barber's  son.  "I  like  custards." 

Once  the  judge's  son  had  thought  that  nothing  could 
be  so  grand  as  to  be  wounded  fighting  for  one's  country. 
He  had  in  mind  then,  as  the  object  of  his  boyish  admira 
tion,  a  young  officer  returned  from  a  little  campaign 
against  the  blacks  in  Africa,  when,  the  casualties  being 
few  and  the  scene  distant  and  picturesque,  all  heroes 
with  scars  had  an  aspect  of  romantic  exclusiveness. 
But  there  was  no  more  distinction  now  in  being  wounded 
than  in  catching  cold.  Truly,  colonial  wars  were  the 
only  satisfactory  kind. 

The  judge's  son  found  himself  one  of  many  men  on 

387 


388  THE  LAST  SHOT 

cots  in  long  rows  in  the  former  barracks  of  the  Browns 
near  La  Tir.  Daily  bulletins  told  the  patients  the  names 
of  the  positions  taken  and  daily  they  heard  of  fresh 
batches  of  wounded  arriving,  which  were  not  mentioned 
on  the  bulletin-board. 

"We  continue  to  win,"  said  the  doctors  and  nurses 
invariably  in  answer  to  all  questions.  "  General  Wester- 
ling  announces  that  everything  is  going  as  planned." 

"You  must  know  that  speech  well!"  observed  the 
judge's  son  to  the  nurse  of  his  section. 

Her  lips  twitched  in  a  kind  of  smile. 

"Letter-perfect!"  she  replied.     "It's  official." 

In  two  weeks,  so  fast  had  the  puncture  from  the  asep 
tic  little  pellet  of  civilized  warfare  healed  under  civiliza 
tion's  medical  treatment,  the  judge's  son  was  up  and 
about,  though  very  weak.  But  the  rules  strictly  con 
fined  his  promenades  to  the  barracks  yard.  There 
might  be  news  coming  down  the  traffic-gorged  castle 
road  out  of  the  region  where  the  guns  sounded  that  con 
valescents  were  not  intended  to  hear.  For  news  could 
travel  in  other  ways  than  by  bulletin-boards;  and  the 
judge's  son,  merely  watching  the  faces  of  medical  officers, 
guessed  that  it  was  depressing.  But  after  the  first  at 
tack  on  Engadir  their  faces  lighted.  The  very  thrill  of 
victory  seemed  to  be  in  the  air. 

"It's  in  the  main  line  of  defence!"  called  the  doctor 
on  his  morning  rounds  of  the  cots.  "They've  made 
Westerling  a  field-marshal.  He's  outwitted  the  Browns! 
In  a  few  days  now  we'll  have  the  range!" 

How  staggering  was  the  cost  he  was  not  to  realize  till 
later,  when  the  ambulance  stewards  kept  repeating: 

"More  to  come!" 

A  newcomer,  who  took  the  place  of  a  man  who  had 
died  on  the  cot  next  to  the  judge's  son,  had  been  in  the 
fight.  He  was  still  ether-sick  and  weak  from  the  ampu 
tation  of  his  right  arm,  with  a  dazed,  glassy,  and  far 
away  look  in  his  eyes,  as  if  everything  in  the  world  was 
strange  and  uncertain. 


WITH  FRACASSE'S  MEN  389 

"The  fearful  flashes — the  explosions — the  gusts  of 
steel  in  the  air!"  he  whispered. 

The  next  night  Westerling  followed  up  his  supposed 
advantage  at  Engadir  as  he  had  planned,  and  there  was 
no  sleep  for  the  thunders  and  the  light  of  the  explosions 
through  the  barracks-room  windows. 

"I  can  see  what  is  happening  and  feel — and  feel!" 
said  the  man  who  had  been  at  Engadir. 

In  the  morning  the  bulletin  announced  that  more 
positions  were  taken,  with  very  heavy  losses — to  the 
enemy.  But  the  news  that  travelled  unofficially  from 
tongue  to  tongue  down  the  castle  road  and  spoke  in  the 
faces  of  doctors  and  nurses  said,  "And  to  us!"  plainly 
enough,  even  if  the  judge's  son  had  not  heard  a  doctor 
remark: 

"It's  awful — inconceivable!  Not  a  hospital  tent  in 
this  division  is  unoccupied.  Most  of  the  houses  in  town 
are  full,  and  we're  preparing  for  another  grand  attack!" 

Now  for  two  days  the  guns  kept  up  their  roar. 

"Making  ready  for  the  infantry  to  go  in,"  ran  the  talk 
around  the  barracks  yard. 

After  the  infantry  had  gone  in  and  the  result  was 
known,  the  doctor  on  his  morning  round  said  to  the 
judge's  son: 

"You're  pretty  pale  yet,  but  you'll  do.  We  must 
make  room  for  a  big  crowd  that  is  coming  and  the  orders 
are  to  get  every  man  who  is  in  any  condition  to  fight  to 
the  front." 

"And  if  I  get  another  hole  in  me  you'll  patch  me  up 
again?  " 

"Get  any  number  and  we'll  patch  you  up  if  they're 
in  the  right  place,"  was  the  answer.  "But  be  careful 
about  that  detail." 

Soon  the  judge's  son  was  with  a  score  of  convalescents 
who  were  marched  down  to  the  town,  where  they  formed 
in  column  with  other  detachments. 

"Not  with  that  cough!"  exclaimed  a  doctor  as  they 
were  about  to  start,  ordering  a  man  out  of  line.  "You'd 


3QO  THE  LAST  SHOT 

never  get  to  the  front.  You'd  only  have  to  be  brought 
back  in  an  ambulance." 

An  enlightening  march  this  for  the  judge's  son  from 
hospital  to  trenches,  moving  with  a  tide  of  loaded  com 
missariat  wagons  and  empty  ambulances  and  passing 
a  tide  of  loaded  ambulances  and  empty  commissariat 
wagons.  A  like  scene  was  on  every  road  to  the  front; 
a  like  scene  on  every  vista  of  landscape  along  any  part 
of  the  frontier.  All  trees  and  bushes  and  walls  and  build 
ings  that  would  give  cover  to  the  enemy  the  Browns 
had  razed.  On  every  point  of  rising  ground  were  the 
trenches  and  redoubts  that  the  Browns  had  yielded  after 
their  purpose  of  making  the  Grays  earn  their  way  by 
trenches  of  their  own  had  been  served.  The  fields  were 
trampled  by  the  feet  of  infantry,  cut  by  gun  wheels, 
ploughed  by  shells,  and  sown  with  the  conical  nickel 
pellets  from  rifles  and  the  round  lead  bullets  of  shrapnel. 
An  escarpment  of  rock,  where  the  road-bed  was  slashed 
into  a  hillside  in  a  sharp  turn,  struck  by  the  concentrated 
fire  of  automatics,  appeared  to  have  been  beaten  by  thou 
sands  of  sharp-headed  hammers,  leaving  a  pile  of  chips 
and  dust. 

The  traffic  of  the  main  roads  spread  into  branch  roads 
which  ended  in  the  ganglia  of  supply  depots,  all  kept 
in  touch  by  the  network  of  wires  focussing  through  dif 
ferent  headquarters  to  Westerling.  In  this  conquered 
territory  with  its  face  of  desolation  there  were  no  fight 
ing  men  except  reserves  or  convalescents  on  their  way 
to  the  front.  All  the  rest  were  wounded  or  dead  or 
occupied  in  the  routine  of  supply  and  intelligence. 
The  organization  which  had  been  drilled  through  two 
generations  of  peace  for  this  emergency  exhibited  the 
signs  of  pressure. 

Eyes  that  met  when  commands  were  given  and  re 
ceived  were  dull  from  want  of  sleep  or  hectically  bright 
as  a  hypochondriac's.  Voices  spoke  in  a  grim,  tired 
monotone,  broken  by  sudden  flashes  of  irritation  or  erup 
tions  of  anger.  Features  were  drawn  like  those  of  rowers 


WITH  FRACASSE'S  MEN  391 

against  a  tide.  The  very  proportions  of  the  ghastly 
harvest  after  the  last,  the  heaviest  of  all,  of  the  attacks 
brought  spasms  of  nausea  to  men  already  hardened  to 
blood  and  death.  If  the  officers  of  the  staffs  in  their 
official  conspiracy  of  silence  would  not  talk,  the  privates 
and  the  wounded  would.  The  judge's  son,  observing, 
listening,  thinking,  was  gathering  a  story  to  tell  his  com 
rades  of  Company  B  of  the  i28th. 

That  night  he  and  his  comrade  convalescents  slept 
in  the  open.  Their  bodies  were  huddled  close  together 
under  their  blankets  for  warmth,  while  aching  limbs 
twitched  from  the  fatigue  of  the  march.  The  morning 
showed  that  others  had  coughs  which  should  have  kept 
them  from  the  front. 

"Four  or  five  cases  of  pneumonia  due  in  that  lot!" 
a  doctor  remarked  to  a  hospital-corps  sergeant.  "Put 
them  in  empties  right  away." 

After  this  announcement  other  coughs  developed. 
Amusing,  these  sudden,  purposeful  efforts  should  one 
happen  to  think  of  them  in  that  way.  But  no  one 
did. 

"No  you  don't,  you  malingerers!"  said  the  doctor 
sharply.  "I've  been  at  this  business  long  enough  to 
know  a  real  cough." 

Now  the  judge's  son  and  a  dozen  others  were  sepa 
rated  from  the  rest  of  their  companions  and  started  over 
a  hill.  From  the  top  they  had  a  broad  view.  Across  a 
strip  of  valley  lay  the  main  rise  to  the  heights  of  the 
range.  Along  the  summit  nothing  warlike  was  visible 
except  the  irregular  landscape  against  the  horizon. 
There  the  enemy  rested  in  his  fortifications.  The  slopes, 
as  far  as  the  judge's  son  could  see  on  either  hand,  were 
like  the  warrens  of  an  overpopulated  rabbit  world  in 
hiding.  Here  was  the  army  of  the  Grays  in  its  re 
doubts  and  trenches,  A  thousand  times  as  many  men 
as  were  ever  at  work  on  the  Panama  Canal  had  been 
digging  their  way  forward — digging  regardless  of  union 
hours;  digging  to  save  their  own  lives  and  to  take  lives. 


392  THE  LAST  SHOT 

And  the  nearer  they  came  to  the  top  of  the  range  the 
deeper  they  had  to  dig  and  the  slower  their  progress. 

As  the  little  group  of  convalescents  descended  into 
a  valley  a  bursting  shell  from  the  Browns  scattered  its 
fragments  over  the  earth  near  by. 

"They  drop  one  occasionally,  though  they  don't  ex 
pect  to  get  more  than  a  man  or  two  by  chance,  which 
is  hardly  worth  the  cost  of  the  charge,"  some  one  ex 
plained.  "You  see  that  they  must  know  just  what  our 
positions  are  from  their  understanding  of  our  army's 
organization,  and  the  purpose  is  to  bother  us  about 
bringing  up  supplies  and  reserves.  Start  a  commissa 
riat  train  or  a  company  in  close  order  across,  and— 
whew!  The  air  screams!" 

Once  on  the  other  side  of  the  valley,  and  the  maze  of 
zigzags  and  parallels  leading  into  the  warrens  was  sim 
plified  by  signs  indicating  the  location  of  regiments. 
At  length  the  judge's  son  found  himself  in  the  home 
cave  of  his  own  tribe.  His  comrades  were  resting  at  the 
noon-hour,  their  backs  against  the  wall  of  their  shell- 
proof.  In  the  faint  light  their  faces  were  as  gray  as  the 
dust  on  the  dirty  uniforms  that  hung  on  their  gaunt 
bodies.  Dust  was  caked  in  the  seams  around  their 
eyes;  their  cheeks  were  covered  with  dusty  beards. 
Their  greeting  of  the  returned  absentee  was  that  of  men 
who  had  passed  through  a  strain  that  left  existence  un 
touched  by  the  spring  of  average  sensations. 

"Did  you  get  the  custards?"  asked  the  barber's  son 
in  a  squeaky  voice. 

"No,  but  I  got  a  jelly  once — only  once!" 

"Snob!"  said  the  barber's  son. 

"Jelly!  I  could  eat  a  hogshead  of  jelly  and  still  be 
empty!  What  I  want  is  fresh  meat!"  growled  Pilzer, 
the  butcher's  son. 

"A  hogshead  of  jelly  might  be  good  to  bathe  in!"  said 
the  banker's  son.  "I  haven't  had  a  bath  for  a  month." 

"I  have.  I  turned  my  underclothes  inside  out!" 
said  the  barber's  son.  He  was  aiming  to  take  Hugo's 


WITH  FRACASSE'S  MEN  393 

place  as  humorist,  in  the  confidence  of  one  sprung  from 
a  talkative  family. 

Scanning  the  faces,  the  judge's  son  found  many  new 
ones — those  of  the  older  reservists — while  many  of  the 
faces  of  barrack  days  were  missing. 

"Whom  have  we  lost?"  he  asked. 

The  answer,  given  with  dull  matter-of-factness,  re 
vealed  that,  of  the  group  that  had  talked  so  light- 
heartedly  of  war  six  weeks  before,  only  little  Peterkin, 
the  valet's  son,  and  Pilzer,  the  butcher's  son,  and  the 
barber's  and  the  banker's  sons  survived.  They  were 
sitting  in  a  row,  from  the  instinct  that  makes  old  as 
sociates  keep  together  even  though  they  continually 
quarrel.  The  striking  thing  was  that  Peterkin  looked  the 
most  cheerful  and  well-kept  of  the  four.  As  the  proud 
possessor  of  a  pair  of  scissors,  he  had  trimmed  a  sur 
prisingly  heavy  beard  Van  Dyck  fashion,  which  empha 
sized  his  peaked  features  and  a  certain  consciousness  of 
superiority;  while  the  barber's  son  sported  only  a  few 
scraggly  hairs.  The  scant,  reddish  product  of  Pilzer's 
cheeks,  leaving  bare  the  liver  patch,  only  accentuated 
its  repulsiveness  and  a  savagery  in  his  voice  and  look 
which  was  no  longer  latent  under  the  conventional  dis 
cipline  of  every-day  existence.  The  company  had  not 
been  in  the  first  Engadir  assault,  but,  being  near  the 
Engadir  position,  had  suffered  heavily  in  support. 

"You  were  in  the  big  attack  night  before  last?"  asked 
the  judge's  son. 

"We  started  in,"  said  Peterkin,  "but  Captain  Fra- 
casse  brought  us  back,"  he  added  in  a  way  that  implied 
that  only  orders  had  kept  him  from  going  on. 

Peterkin,  the  trembling  little  Peterkin  of  the  baptis 
mal  charge  across  the  line  of  white  posts,  had  been  the 
first  out  of  the  redoubt  on  to  the  glacis  in  that  abortive 
effort,  living  up  to  the  bronze  cross  on  his  breast.  He 
was  one  of  the  half  dozen  out  of  the  score  that  had 
started  to  return  alive.  The  psychology  of  war  had 
transformed  his  gallantry;  it  had  passed  from  simulation 


394  THE  LAST  SHOT 

to  reality,  thanks  to  his  established  conviction  that  he 
led  a  charmed  life.  Little  Peterkin,  always  pale  but 
never  getting  paler,  was  ready  to  lead  any  forlorn  hope. 
A  superstitious  nature,  which,  at  the  outset  of  the  war, 
had  convinced  him  that  he  must  be  killed  in  the  first 
charge,  now,  as  the  result  of  his  survival,  gave  him  all 
the  faith  of  Eugene  Aronson  that  the  bullet  would  never 
be  made  that  could  kill  him. 

"Was  the  attack  general  all  along  the  front?"  some 
one  asked.  "We  couldn't  tell.  All  we  knew  was  the 
hell  around  us." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  judge's  son. 

"Did  we  accomplish  anything?" 

"A  few  minor  positions,  I  believe." 

"But  we  will  win!"  said  Peterkin.  "The  colonel 
said  so." 

"And  the  news — what  is  the  news?"  demanded  the 
barber's  son.  "You  needn't  be  afraid,"  he  added.  "The 
officers  are  on  the  other  side  of  the  redoubt.  They 
get  sick  of  the  sight  of  us  and  we  of  them  and  this  is 
their  recess  and  ours  from  the  eternal  digging." 

"Yes,  the  news  from  home!" 

"Yes,  from  home!  We  don't  even  get  letters  any 
more.  They've  shut  off  all  the  mails." 

"I  met  a  man  from  our  town,"  said  the  judge's  son. 
"He  said  that  after  that  story  was  published  in  the  press 
about  Hugo's  damning  patriotism  and  hurrahing  for 
the  Browns — it  was  fearfully  exaggerated — his  old  father 
and  mother  shut  themselves  up  in  the  house  and  would 
not  show  their  faces  for  shame.  But  his  sweetheart, 
however  much  her  parents  stormed,  refused  to  renounce 
him.  She  held  her  head  high  and  said  that  the  more 
they  abused  him  the  more  she  loved  him,  and  she  knew 
he  could  do  nothing  wrong." 

"Hugo  was  not  a  patriot.  It  takes  red  blood  to  make 
a  patriot!"  said  Peterkin.  In  the  pride  of  heroism  and 
prestige,  he  was  becoming  an  oracular  enunciator  of 
commonplaces  from  the  lips  of  his  superiors. 


WITH  FRACASSE'S  MEN  395 

"The  absence  of  any  word  from  the  front  only  in 
creases  the  suspense  of  the  people.  They  do  not  know 
whether  their  sons  and  brothers  and  husbands  are  living 
or  dead/'  continued  the  judge's  son. 

"Up  to  a  week  ago  they  let  us  write,"  said  Pilzer, 
"though  they  wouldn't  let  us  say  anything  except  that 
we  were  well." 

"That  was  because  it  might  give  information  to  the 
enemy,"  said  Peterkin. 

"As  if  I  didn't  know  that!"  grumbled  Pilzer.  "The 
enemy  seems  to  be  always  ready  for  us,  anyway,"  he 
added. 

"The  chief  of  staff  stopped  the  letters  because  he  said 
that  mothers  who  received  none  took  it  for  granted  that 
their  sons  were  dead,"  explained  the  judge's  son.  "Be 
sides,  he  asserts  that  casualties  are  not  heavy  and  asks 
for  patience  in  the  name  of  patriotism." 

"The 1"  exclaimed  Pilzer,  referring  to  Wester- 
ling.  He  who  had  set  out  to  be  an  officers'  favorite  had 
become  bitter  against  all  officers,  high  and  low. 

Peterkin  was  speechlessly  aghast.  The  others  said 
nothing.  They  were  used  to  Pilzer's  oaths  and  obscen 
ity,  with  a  growing  inclination  to  profanity  on  their 
own  part.  Besides,  they  rather  agreed  with  his  view  of 
the  chief  of  staff. 

"Did  you  see  many  dead  and  wounded?"  asked  a  very 
tired  voice,  that  of  one  of  the  older  reservists  who  was 
emaciated,  with  a  complexion  like  blue  mould. 

"How  can  I  tell  you  what  I  saw?  Ought  I  to  tell 
you?" 

"When  you've  had  to  wipe  a  piece  of  brains  out  of 
your  eye,  as  I  have — it  was  warm  and  jelly-like,"  said 
Pilzer,  "you  ain't  as  squeamish  as  Hugo  Mallin.  I 
wonder  they  don't  give  him  a  bronze  cross!" 

"Bronze  crosses  are  given  for  bravery  in  action,"  said 
Peterkin  in  his  new-fashioned  parrot  way  since  he  had 
become  great.  "You  should  not  do  anything  to  affect 
the  spirit  of  corps." 


3Q6  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"The  boy  wonder  from  the  butler's  pantry!  Our 
dear,  natty  little  buttons!  Bullets  glide  off  him!" 
snarled  Pilzer,  who  had  set  out  to  win  a  bronze  cross, 
only  to  see  it  won  by  a  pygmy. 

"Did  you  see  many  dead  and  wounded?"  persisted 
the  very  tired  voice  of  the  old  reservist. 

"Yes,  yes — and  every  kind  of  destruction!"  answered 
the  judge's  son.  "And — I  kept  thinking  of  Hugo  Mal- 
lin." 

"I'm  glad  they  didn't  shoot  Hugo,"  said  the  very 
tired  voice.  "I'm  sorry  for  his  old  father  and  mother. 
I'm  a  father  myself." 

"I  certainly  had  a  good  farewell  kick  at  him!"  de 
clared  Pilzer.  "Lean  on  yourself!"  he  added,  giving  a 
shove  to  the  old  reservist  who  was  next  him. 

"I  saw  men  who  had  ceased  to  be  human.  That 
reminds  me,  Pilzer,"  the  judge's  son  went  on,  "I  saw 
one  wounded  man,  lying  beside  another,  turn  and  strike 
him,  and  he  said:  'I  had  to  hit  somebody  or  something!' 
And  I  heard  a  wounded  man  who  was  waiting  in  line 
before  the  surgeon's  table  say:  'There's  others  hurt 
worse  than  me.  I  can  wait.'  I  heard  men  begging  the 
doctors  to  put  them  out  of  their  misery.  I  saw  two 
dead  men  with  their  hands  clasped  as  they  were  when 
they  died.  Then  there  were  the  men  who  went  mad. 
One  had  to  be  held  by  force.  He  kept  crying  with 
demoniacal  laughs:  'I  want  to  go  back  and  kill — kill! 
Let's  all  kill,  kill,  kill!'  Another  insisted  on  dancing, 
despite  a  bandaged  leg.  'Look,  look  at  the  little  red 
spots!'  he  was  saying.  'You  must  step  on  one  every 
time;  if  you  don't,  the  automatic  will  get  you!'  An 
other  declared  that  he  had  been  through  hell  and  in 
sisted  that  he  would  live  forever  now.  Another  was  an 
artist,  a  landscape-painter,  who  had  lost  his  eyesight. 
He  was  seeing  beautiful  landscapes,  and  the  nurses  had 
to  strap  him  to  his  cot  to  keep  him  from  struggling  to 
his  feet  and  trying  to  use  an  imaginary  brush  on  imagi 
nary  canvases.  He  died  seeing  beautiful  landscapes. 


WITH  FRACASSE'S  MEN  397 

"A  pretty  dreary  sight,  too,  was  the  field  of  the  dead, 
as  I  called  it.  As  the  bodies  were  brought  in  they  were 
laid  in  long  rows,  until  there  was  no  more  room  without 
moving  a  supply  depot.  So  there  was  nothing  to  do 
but  begin  to  pile  them  two  deep.  A  service-corps  man 
took  off  each  man's  metal  identification  tag  and  tossed 
it  into  an  ammunition  box.  One  box  was  already  full 
and  a  second  half  full.  Chink-chink-chink — tags  of  the 
rich  man's  son  and  the  poor  man's  son,  the  doctor  of 
philosophy  and  the  illiterate;  chink-chink-chink — a  life 
each  time.  They'll  take  the  tags  to  the  staff  office  and 
tired  clerks  will  find  the  names  that  go  with  the  num 
bers." 

"You  cannot  make  an  omelet  without  breaking 
eggs,"  said  Peterkin,  quoting  high  authority.  "Some 
have  to  be  killed." 

"The  last  I  heard  from  home  my  wife  and  one  of  the 
children  were  sick  and  my  employer  had  gone  bank 
rupt,"  broke  in  the  very  tired  voice  rather  irrelevantly. 

"Yes,  my  father's  last  letter  was  pretty  blue  about 
business,"  said  the  banker's  son.  He  was  looking  at  his 
dirty  hands.  The  odor  of  clothes  unlaundered  for  weeks, 
in  which  the  men  had  slept,  tortured  his  sensitive  nostrils. 
"A  millionaire  and  filthy  as  swine  in  a  sty ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"Digging  like  a  navvy  in  order  to  get  admission  to  the 
abattoir!" 

"Were  there  any  reserves  coming  our  way?"  asked 
the  barber's  son. 

"Yes,  masses." 

"Perhaps  they  will  relieve  us  and  we'll  go  into  the 
reserves  for  a  while,"  suggested  the  very  tired  voice. 

"No  fear!"  growled  Pilzer. 

"They  have  called  out  the  old  men,  the  fellows  of 
forty-five  to  fifty,  who  were  supposed  to  be  out  of  it  for 
good,"  said  the  judge's  son.  "Westerling  says  they  are 
to  guard  prisoners  and  property  when  we  cross  the  range 
and  start  on  the  march  to  the  Browns'  capital.  Then 
all  the  other  men  can  be  on  the  firing-line  and  force  the 


3g8  THE  LAST  SHOT 

war  to  a  mercifully  quick  end  with  a  minimum  loss.  I 
saw  numbers  of  them  just  arriving  at  La  Tir,  footsore 
and  limping." 

"I  know.  Mine's  been  indoor  work,  making  paints," 
said  the  very  tired  voice.  "When  you've  had  long 
hours  in  the  shop  and  had  to  sit  up  late  with  sick  babies, 
you  aren't  fit  for  marching.  And  I  think  I've  got  lead- 
poisoning." 

"  Whew! "  The  judge's  son  put  his  hand  over  his  nose 
as  a  breeze  sprang  up  from  the  direction  of  the  Brown 
lines. 

"I  thought  we  got  them  all,"  said  the  barber's  son. 

"Must  have  missed  one  that  was  buried  by  a  shell 
and  another  shell  must  have  dug  him  up!"  muttered 
Pilzer,  glaring  at  the  barber's  son.  "It's  not  nice  on 
people  with  ladylike  nostrils.  James,  get  the  eau  de 
cologne  and  draw  his  bath  for  our  plutocrat!" 

"You  see,  something  had  to  be  done  about  the  dead 
between  the  redoubts,"  explained  the  barber's  son, 
"though  the  officers  on  both  sides  were  against  it." 

"Naturally.  It  afforded  opportunities  for  observa 
tion,"  put  in  Peterkin,  repeating  the  colonel's  words. 

"But  finally  it  was  agreed  to  let  a  dozen  from  either 
side  go  out  without  .arms,"  the  barber's  son  concluded. 

"I  heard  there  was  great  complaint  from  the  women," 
went  on  the  judge's  son.  "Women  aren't  like  what 
they  were  in  the  last  war.  They  want  to  know  what  has 
become  of  their  men-folk.  They  have  been  gathering 
in  crowds  and  making  trouble  for  the  police.  One  of 
the  old  reservists  was  telling  me  of  talk  of  an  army  of 
women  marching  to  the  front  to  learn  the  truth  of  the 
situation." 

"If  you  don't  stop  leaning  on  me  I'll  give  you  a  punch 
you'll  remember!"  exclaimed  Pilzer  as  he  rammed  his 
elbow  into  the  old  reservist's  ribs. 

"I  beg  pardon!  It  was  because  I  am  tired  and  sort 
of  blank-minded,"  the  old  reservist  explained. 

"You  brute!"  snapped  the  banker's  son  to  Pilzer. 


WITH  FRACASSE'S  MEN  399 

"Mallin  thrashed  you  once  and  I've  done  it  once.  On 
my  word,  I've  a  mind  to  again!" 

"No,  you  don't!  No,  you  can't!  And  this  time 
your  boxing  tricks  will  do  you  no  good.  I'll  finish 
you!" 

The  two  had  sprung  to  their  feet  with  hectic  energy: 
Pilzer's  liver  patch  a  mottled  purple  in  the  midst  of 
his  curly  red  beard,  his  head  lowered  in  front  of  his 
short,  thick  neck  as  before  a  spring,  and  the  banker's  son, 
lighter  and  quicker,  awaiting  the  attack.  Some  of  the 
others  half  rose,  while  the  rest  looked  on  in  curiosity 
mixed  with  indifference. 

"I'll  call  the  captain!"  piped  Peterkin. 

The  judge's  son  stopped  Peterkin  and  put  a  hand  on 
either  of  the  adversaries'  shoulders. 

"  Can't  we  g'et  enough  fighting  from  the  Browns  with 
out  fighting  each  other?"  he  asked. 

The  banker's  son  and  Pilzer  dropped  back  in  their 
places,  in  the  reaction  of  men  who  had  spent  their 
strength  in  defiance. 

"The  thick  of  it  last  night,  I  heard,  was  still  at  En- 
gadir,  where  Westerling  is  determined  to  break  through," 
the  judge's  son  proceeded.  "At  one  point  they  sent  in 
a  regiment  with  a  regiment  covering  it  from  the  rear, 
and  the  fellows  ahead  were  told  that  they  wouldn't  be 
allowed  to  come  back  alive — just  what  occurred  at  Port 
Arthur,  you  know — so  they  had  better  take  the  posi 
tion." 

"What  happened?"  asked  the  very  tired  voice. 

"Those  who  reached  the  enemy's  works  alive  were 
taken  prisoner." 

Further  talk  was  interrupted  by  a  volume  of  voices 
singing,  which  seemed  to  issue  from  a  cellar  not  far  away. 
It  had  the  swell  of  a  hymn  of  resolute  purpose. 

"The  Browns'  song — something  new  since  you  were 
with  us,"  explained  the  barber's  son  to  the  judge's 
son. 

"Yes,  their  whole  line  sung  it  in  the  silence  of  dawn 


400  THE  LAST  SHOT 

following  last  night's  repulse,"  said  the  banker's  son. 
"  Notice  the  hammer  beat  to  it  and  then  the  earth  rum 
ble,  like  pounding  nails  in  a  coffin  box  and  rattling  the 
earth  on  top  of  the  box  after  it  is  lowered." 

"Yes,  and  I  get  the  words,"  said  the  judge's  son,  who 
knew  the  language  of  the  Browns:  "  'God  with  us,  not 
to  take  what  is  theirs,  but  to  keep  what  is  ours!  God 
with  us!" 

"They  say  some  private — Stransky,  I  believe  his 
name  is — composed  the  words  from  a  saying  of  Partow, 
their  chief  of  staff,  and  it  spread,"  put  in  the  very  tired 
voice. 

"As  it  would  at  a  time  of  high  pressure  like  this,  when 
all  humanity's  nerves  form  an  electric  circuit,"  said  the 
judge's  son.  "  'God  with  us!'  What  a  power  they  put 
into  that!" 

"But  God  is  with  us,  not  with  them!"  put  in  Peterkin 
earnestly.  "Let's  have  our  song  to  answer  them,"  he 
added,  striking  up  the  tune. 

So  they  sung  the  song  they  had  sung  as  they  started 
off  to  the  war — a  song  about  camping  in  the  squares  of 
the  Browns'  capital  and  dining  in  the  Browns'  government 
palace;  a  hurrahing,  marchy  song,  but  without  exactly 
the  snap  in  keeping  with  its  character. 

"The  trouble  is  that  they  lie  at  the  mouths  of  their 
burrows  and  get  us  naked  to  their  fire,"  said  the  bank 
er's  son.  "We  have  to  take  their  positions — they  don't 
try  to  take  ours." 

"But  we  must  go  on!  We  can't  give  up  now!"  said 
the  barber's  son. 

"Yes,  we  must  go  on! ".agreed  some  of  the  others 
stubbornly. 

"Yes,  yes,"  came  faintly  from  the  very  tired  voice. 

"We  shall  win!  The  aggressive  always  wins!"  de 
clared  Peterkin. 

Then  the  redoubt  shook  with  an  explosion  and  their 
eyes  were  blinded  with  dust. 

"I  thought  it  was  about  time!"  said  the  barber's  son. 


WITH  FRACASSE'S  MEN  401 

"Yes,  the  -       -!"  snarled  Pilzer. 

The  shell  had  struck  some  distance  away  from  where 
they  sat,  and  as  the  dust  settled  they  heard  the  news  of 
the  result: 

"One  fellow  had  his  arm  broken  and  another  had  his 
head  crushed." 

"It'll  keep  us  from  working  on  the  mine  while  we 
mend  the  breach,"  said  the  barber's  son. 

While  the  judge's  son  was  telling  the  news,  the  colonel 
of  the  1 2  8th  and  Captain  Fracasse  were  eating  their 
biscuits  together  and  making  occasional  remarks  rather 
than  holding  a  conversation. 

"Well,  Westerling  is  a  field-marshal,"  said  the  colonel. 

"Yes,  he's  got  something  out  of  it!" 

"The  men  seem  to  be  losing  their  spirit — there's  no 
doubt  of  it!"  exclaimed  the  colonel,  more  aloud  to  him 
self  than  to  Fracasse,  after  a  while. 

"No  wonder!"  replied  Fracasse.  Martinet  though  he 
was,  he  spoke  in  grumbling  loyalty  to  his  soldiers .  ' '  What 
kind  of  spirit  is  there  in  doing  the  work  of  navvies? 
Spirit!  No  soldiers  ever  fought  better — in  invasion, 
at  least.  Look  at  our  losses!  Spirit!  Westerling 
drives  us  in.  He  thinks  we  can  climb  Niagara  Falls! 
He " 

"Stop!  You're  talking  like  an  anarchist!"  snapped 
the  colonel.  "How  can  the  men  have  spirit  when  you 
feel  that  way?" 

"I  shall  continue  to  obey  orders  and  do  my  duty, 
sir!"  replied  Fracasse.  "And  they  will,  too,  or  I'll 
know  the  reason  why." 

There  was  a  silence,  but  at  length  the  colonel  ex 
ploded: 

"I  suppose  Westerling  knows  what  he  is  doing!" 

"Still,  we  must  go  on!    We  must  win!" 

"Yes,  the  offensive  always  wins  in  the  end.  We  must 
go  on!" 

"And  once  we  have  the  range — yes,  once  we've  won 


402  THE  LAST  SHOT 

one  vital  position — the  men  will  recover  their  enthusiasm 
and  be  crying:  'On  to  the  capital !' ' 

11  Right!    We  were  forgetting  history.     We  were  for 
getting  the  volatility  of  human  nature." 


XLI 
WITH  FELLER  AND  STRANSKY 

FAR  up  on  a  peak  among  the  birds  and  aeroplanes,  in 
a  roofed,  shell-proof  chamber,  with  a  telephone  orderly 
at  his  side,  a  powerful  pair  of  field-glasses  and  range- 
finders  at  his  elbow,  and  a  telescope  before  his  eye, 
Gustave  Feller,  one-time  gardener  and  now  acting  colo 
nel  of  artillery,  watched  the  burst  of  shells  over  the  en 
emy's  lines.  While  other  men  had  grown  lean  on  war, 
he  had  taken  on  enough  flesh  to  fill  out  the  wrinkles 
around  eyes  that  shone  with  an  artist's  enjoyment  of 
his  work.  Down  under  cover  of  the  ridge  were  his  guns, 
the  keys  of  the  instrument  that  he  played  by  calls  over 
the  wire.  Their  barking  was  a  symphony  to  his  ears; 
errors  of  orchestration  were  errors  in  aim.  He  talked 
as  he  watched,  his  lively  features  reflective  of  his  im 
pressions. 

"Oh,  pretty!  Right  into  their  tummies!  Right  in 
the  nose!  La,  la,  la!  But  that's  off — and  so's  that! 
Tell  Battery  C  they're  fifty  yards  over.  Oh,  beady- 
eyed  gods  and  shiny  little  fishes — two  smacks  in  the 
same  spot!  Humph!  Tell  Battery  C  that  the  trouble 
with  that  gun  is  worn  rifling;  that's  why  it's  going  short. 
Elevate  it  for  another  hundred  yards — but  it  ought  not 
to  wear  out  so  soon.  I'd  like  to  kick  the  maker  or  the 
inspector.  The  fellows  in  B  21  will  accuse  us  of  inat 
tention.  It's  time  to  drop  a  shell  on  them  to  show  we're 
perfectly  impartial  in  our  favors.  La,  la,  la!  Oh,  what 
a  pretty  smack!  Congratulations!" 

B  21  was  the  position  of  Fracasse's  company  and  the 

403 


404  THE  LAST  SHOT 

pretty  smack  the  one  that  broke  one  man's  arm  and 
crushed  another's  head. 

The  "God  with  us!"  song  was  singularly  suited  to 
the  great,  bull  voice  of  its  composer,  born  to  the  red  and 
become  Captain  Stransky  in  the  red  business  of  war. 
It  was  he  who  led  the  thunder  of  its  verses  not  far  from 
where  Peterkin  led  the  song  of  the  Grays. 

"I  certainly  like  that  song,"  said  Stransky.  Well  he 
might.  It  had  made  him  famous  throughout  the  nation. 
"There's  Jehovah  and  brimstone  in  it.  Now  we'll  have 
our  own." 

"Our  own"  was  also  of  Stransky's  composition  and 
about  Dellarme;  for  Stransky,  child  of  the  highways 
and  byways,  of  dark,  tragic  alleys  and  sunny  fields,  had 
music  in  him,  the  music  of  the  people.  The  skin  on  his 
high  cheek-bones  was  drawn  tighter  than  before,  further 
exaggerating  the  size  of  his  nose,  and  the  deeper  set  of 
his  eyes  gave  their  cross  a  more  marked  character.  He 
carried  on  the  spirit  of  Dellarme  in  the  company  in  his 
own  fashion.  The  survivors  among  his  men  were  as 
lean  and  dirty  as  Fracasse's,  but,  never  having  expected 
to  reach  the  enemy's  capital,  war  had  brought  few  illu 
sions.  They  had  known  sleepless  vigils,  but  not  much 
digging  since  they  had  fallen  back  on  the  main  line  into 
the  fortifications  which,  with  all  resources  at  command, 
the  engineers  had  built  before  the  war.  And  the  Browns 
still  held  the  range!  The  principal  fortifications  of  En- 
gadir  and  every  other  vital  point  of  the  main  line  was 
theirs.  All  that  the  enemy  had  gained  in  his  latest  at 
tack  were  a  few  minor  positions. 

"But  we're  always  losing  positions!"  complained  one 
of  the  men.  "Little  by  little  they  are  getting  posses 
sion." 

"They  say  the  offensive  always  wins,"  said  another. 

"Five  against  three!  They  count  on  numbers,"  said 
Lieutenant  Tom  Fragini. 

"There  you  go,  Tom!    Any  other  pessimists  or  an- 


WITH  FELLER  AND  STRANSKY        405 

archists  want  to  be  heard?"  called  out  Stransky.  "Just 
how  long,  at  the  present  rate,  will  it  take  them  to  get 
the  whole  range?  There's  a  limit  to  the  number  of  even 
five  millions." 

"  Yes,  but  if  they  ever  break  through  in  one  place  and 
get  their  guns  up " 

"As  you've  said  before,  Tom!" 

"As  we  want  to  keep  saying — as  we  want  to  keep 
fighting  our  damnedest  to  make  sure  they  won't,"  Tom 
explained. 

"Yes,  that's  it!"  declared  a  chorus. 

"That's  it,  no  matter  what  we  pay!"  declared  Stran 
sky.  "We're  not  going  back  there  except  in  hearses!" 
He  swung  his  hand  in  a  semicircle  toward  the  distant 
hills,  gold  and  purple  in  their  dying  foliage  under  the 
autumn  sunlight. 

Then  the  telephone  in  the  redoubt  brought  some  news. 
The  staff  begged  to  inform  the  army  that  the  enemy's 
casualties  in  the  last  three  days  had  been  two  hundred 
thousand!  Immediately  everybody  was  talking  at  once 
in  Stransky 's  parliament,  as  he  sometimes  called  that 
company  of  which  he  was,  in  the  final  analysis,  un 
limited  monarch. 

"How  do  they  know?" 

"Do  you  think  it's  fake?" 

"That  sums  up  to  pretty  near  a  million!" 

"My  God!    Think  of  it— a  million!" 

"We're  whittling  them  down!" 

"It  doesn't  make  any  difference  whether  Partow  or 
Lanstron  is  chief  of  staff!" 

"They 're  paying!" 

"Paying  for  our  fellows  that  they've  killed!  Paying 
for  being  in  the  wrong!" 

"Let's  have  the  song  again!     Come  on!" 

"Yes,  the  song!    The  song!" 

"No;  hold  on!"  cried  Tom.  "Not  because  men  are 
killed!" 

"That's  right,  that's  right!"  said  Stransky.    "After 


406  THE  LAST  SHOT 

all,  they're  our  brothers.'"'  It  was  the  first  time  since 
he  had  undergone  the  transformation  which  the  war 
had  wrought  in  him  that  he  had  mentioned  any  of  his 
world-brotherhood  ideas.  "I  still  believe  in  that.  We're 
fighting  for  that!"  he  concluded. 

With  the  ready  change  of  subject  of  soldiers  who  have 
been  long  in  company,  they  were  soon  talking  about 
other  things — things  that  concerned  the  living. 

"Say,  wouldn't  I  like  a  real  bath — an  altogether!" 

"And  plenty  of  soap  all  over!" 

"A  welter  of  lather  from  head  to  foot  and  blowing 
bubbles  from  between  my  lips!" 

"And  to  shave  off  this  beard!" 

"Think  of  the  beards  that  are  going  when  the  war  is 
over!" 

"Not  if  you  can't  grow  any  more  than  John!" 

"I'm  not  fighting  out  of  ambush  like  you!"  replied 
John.  "I  haven't  got  a  place  for  the  birds  to  nest!" 

"I'm  going  to  trim  mine  down  gradually,"  said  an 
other;  "first  an  imperial  and  mustache  with  mutton 
choppers;  then  mow  my  cheeks;  then  a  great,  sweeping 
mustache;  then  a  dandy  little  mustache;  then— 

"Mow  is  the  word!    Don't  inflict  a  barber!" 

"And,  after  the  bath,  clean  underclothes,  and,  oh,  me! 
— a  home  dinner!" 

"Stop  with  your  home  dinners!  That's  barred. 
Army  biscuits!" 

"Yes,  we  all  prefer  army  biscuits!" 

"We  wouldn't  touch  a  home  dinner!" 

Stransky,whis  eyes  drawing  inward  in  their  character 
istic  slant,  was  well  pleased  with  his  company,  and  the 
scattered  exclamatory  badinage  kept  on  until  it  was 
interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  the  mail.  Par  tow  and 
Lanstron,  understanding  their  machine  as  human  in  its 
elements,  had  chosen  that  the  army  should  hear  from 
home. 

"How's  this!"  exclaimed  one  man,  reading  from  a 
newspaper.  "They're  going  to  put  up  a  statue  of  Par- 


WITH  FELLER  AND   STRANSKY        407 

tow  in  the  capital!  It's  to  show  him  as  he  died,  dropped 
forward  on  the  map,  and  in  front  of  his  desk  a  field  of 
bayonets.  On  one  face  of  the  base  will  be  his  name. 
Two  of  the  other  faces  will  have  'God  with  us!'  and 
'Not  for  theirs,  but  for  ours!'  The  legend  on  the  fourth 
face  the  war  is  to  decide." 

" Victory!  Victory!"  cried  those  who  had  listened 
to  the  announcement. 

"My  mother  says  just  what  yours  says,  Tom.  I 
needn't  come  home  unless  we  win." 

"The  girl  I'm  going  to  marry  said  that,  too!" 

"If  we  go  back  with  the  Gray  army  at  our  heels  we 
shall  strike  a  worse  fire  than  if  we  stick!" 

Stransky  was  thinking  that  they  had  to  do  more  than 
hold  the  Grays.  Before  he  should  see  his  girl  they  had 
to  take  back  the  lost  territory.  He  carried  two  pictures 
of  Minna  in  his  mind:  one  when  she  had  struck  him  in 
the  face  as  he  had  tried  to  kiss  her  and  the  other  as  he 
said  good-by  at  the  kitchen  door.  There  was  not  much 
encouragement  in  either. 

"But  when  she  gets  better  acquainted  with  me  there's 
no  telling!"  he  kept  thinking.  "I  was  fighting  out  of 
cussedness  at  first.  Now  I'm  fighting  for  her  and  to 
keep  what  is  ours!" 


XLII 
THE  RAM 

"I'VE  learned  that  the  greatest,  most  desperate  at 
tack  of  all  is  coming,"  Marta  told  Lanstron.  "But  I 
don't  know  at  what  point.  I  see  Westerling  only  when 
he  comes  into  the  garden,  and  he  does  not  come  so  fre 
quently  of  late." 

Very  sweet  and  very  harrowing  to  him  was  the  in 
timacy  of  their  conspiracy  over  that  underground  wire. 
With  the  prolongation  of  the  strain,  he  feared  for  her. 
He  understood  how  she  suffered.  Sometimes  he  felt 
that  the  Marta  of  their  holiday  comradeship  was  dead 
and  it  was  the  impersonal  spirit  of  a  great  purpose  that 
brought  him  information  and  inspiration.  Her  voice 
was  taut,  without  inflection,  as  if  in  pain,  occasionally 
breaking  into  a  dry  sob,  only  to  become  even  more 
taut  after  a  silence. 

"I  don't — I  can't  urge  you  to  any  further  sacrifice," 
Lanstron  replied.  "You  have  endured  enough." 

"But  it  will  help?    It  will  be  of  vital  service?" 

"Yes,  tremendously  vital." 

"I  will  try  to  learn  more  when  I  see  him,"  she  con 
tinued.  "But  it  cannot  be  done  by  questioning.  A 
single  question  might  be  fatal.  The  thing  must  come 
in  a  burst  of  confidence.  That's  the  horrible  part  of  it, 
the—  There  was  a  dry  sob  over  the  wire  as  the 
voice  broke  and  then  went  on  steadily:  "But  I'm 
game!  I'm  game!" 

In  the  closet  off  the  Galland  library,  where  the  long 
distance  telephone  was  installed,  Westerling  was  talking 
with  the  premier  in  the  Gray  capital. 

' 


THE  RAM  409 

"Your  total  casualties  are  eight  hundred  thousand! 
That  is  terrific,  Westerling!"  the  premier  was  saying. 

"Only  two  hundred  thousand  of  those  are  dead!" 
replied  Westerling.  "Many  with  only  slight  wounds 
are  already  returning  to  the  front.  Terrific,  do  you 
say?  Two  hundred  thousand  in  five  millions  is  one  man 
out  of  every  twenty-five.  That  wouldn't  have  worried 
Frederick  the  Great  or  Napoleon  much.  Eight  hundred 
thousand  is  one  out  of  six.  The  trouble  is  that  such 
vast  armies  have  never  been  engaged  before.  You  must 
consider  the  percentages,  not  the  totals." 

"Yet,  eight  hundred  thousand!  If  the  public  knew!" 
exclaimed  the  premier. 

"The  public  does  not  know!"  said  Westerling. 

"They  guess.  They  realize  that  we  stopped  the  sol 
diers'  letters  because  they  told  bad  news.  The  situa 
tion  is  serious." 

"Why  not  give  the  public  something  else  to  think 
about?"  Westerling  demanded. 

"I've  tried.  It  doesn't  work.  The  murmurs  in 
crease.  I  repeat,  my  fears  of  a  rising  of  the  women  are 
well  grounded.  There  is  mutiny  in  the  air.  I  feel  it 
through  the  columns  of  the  press,  though  they  are  cen 
sored.  I— 

"Then,  soon  I'll  give  the  public  something  to  think 
about,  myself!"  Westerling  broke  in.  "The  dead  will  be 
forgotten.  The  wounded  will  be  proud  of  their  wounds 
and  their  fathers  and  mothers  triumphant  when  our 
army  descends  the  other  side  of  the  range  and  starts  on 
its  march  to  the  Browns'  capital." 

"But  you  have  not  yet  taken  a  single  fortress!"  per 
sisted  the  premier.  "And  the  Browns  report  that  they 
have  lost  only  three  hundred  thousand  men." 

"Lanstron  is  lying!"  retorted  Westerling  hotly. 
"But  no  matter.  We  have  taken  positions  with  every 
attack  and  kept  crowding  in  closer.  I  ask  nothing 
better  than  that  the  Browns  remain  on  the  defensive, 
leaving  initiative  to  us.  We  have  developed  their  weak 


4io  THE  LAST  SHOT 

points.  The  resolute  offensive  always  wins.  I  know 
where  I  am  going  to  attack;  they  do  not.  I  shall  not 
give  them  time  to  reinforce  the  defence  at  our  chosen 
point.  I  have  still  plenty  of  live  soldiers  left.  I  shall 
go  in  with  men  enough  this  time  to  win  and  to  hold." 

"The  army  is  yours,  Westerling,"  concluded  the 
premier.  "I  admire  your  stolidity  of  purpose.  You 
have  my  confidence.  I  shall  wait  and  hold  the  situation 
at  home  the  best  I  can.  We  go  into  the  hall  of  fame 
or  into  the  gutter  together,  you  and  I!" 

For  a  while  after  he  had  hung  up  the  receiver  Wester- 
ling's  head  drooped,  his  muscles  relaxed,  giving  mind 
and  body  a  release  from  tension.  But  his  spine  was  as 
stiff  as  ever  as  he  left  the  closet,  and  he  was  even  smil 
ing  to  give  the  impression  that  the  news  from  the  capi 
tal  was  favorable.  When  the  telegraphers'  jaws  had 
dropped  as  the  reports  of  casualties  came  in,  when  dis 
couragement  lengthened  the  faces  around  him  and 
whispered  in  the  very  breezes  from  the  fields  of  the  dead, 
he  had  automatically  maintained  his  confident  mien. 
Any  sign  of  weakening  would  be  ruinous  in  its  effect  on 
his  subordinates.  The  citadel  of  his  egoism  must  re 
main  unassailable.  He  must  be  the  optimist,  the  front 
of  Jove,  for  all. 

When  he  called  his  chiefs  of  divisions  it  was  hardly 
for  a  staff  council.  Stunned  by  the  losses  and  repulses, 
loyally  industrious,  their  opinions  unasked,  they  listened 
to  his  whirlwind  of  orders  without  comment — all  except 
Turcas. 

"If  they  are  apprised  of  our  plan  and  are  able  to 
concentrate  more  artillery  than  our  guns  can  silence,  the 
losses  will  be  demoralizing,"  he  observed. 

Westerling  threw  up  his  head,  frowning  down  the 
objection. 

"Suppose  they  amount  to  half  the  forces  that  we  send 
in!"  he  exclaimed.  "Isn't  the  position,  which  means  the 
pass  and  the  range,  worth  it?" 

"Yes,  if  we  both  take  and  hold  it;  not  if  we  fail," 


THE  RAM  411 

replied  Turcas,  quite  unaffected  by  Westerling's  man 
ner. 

" Failure  is  not  in  my  lexicon!"  Westerling  shot  back. 
"For  great  gains  there  must  be  great  risks." 

"We  prepare  for  the  movement,  Your  Excellency," 
answered  Turcas. 

It  was  a  steel  harness  of  his  own  will  that  Westerling 
wore,  without  admitting  that  it  galled  him,  and  he  laid 
it  off  only  in  Marta's  presence.  With  her,  his  growing 
sense  of  isolation  had  the  relief  of  companionship.  She 
became  a  kind  of  mirror  of  his  egoism  and  ambitions. 
He  liked  to  have  her  think  of  him  as  a  great  man  unruf 
fled  among  weaker  men.  In  the  quiet  and  seclusion  of 
the  garden,  involuntarily  as  one  who  has  no  confidant 
speaks  to  himself,  reserving  fortitude  for  his  part  be 
fore  the  staff,  while  she,  under  the  spell  of  her  purpose, 
silently,  with  serene  and  wistfully  listening  eyes,  played 
hers,  he  outlined  how  the  final  and  telling  blow  was  to 
be  struck. 

"We  must  and  we  shall  win!"  he  kept  repeating. 

Through  a  rubber  disk  held  to  his  ear  in  the  closet  of 
his  bedroom  a  voice,  tremulous  with  nervous  fatigue, 
was  giving  Lanstron  news  that  all  his  aircraft  and 
cavalry  and  spies  could  not  have  gained;  news  worth 
more  than  a  score  of  regiments;  news  fresh  from  the 
lips  of  the  chief  of  staff  of  the  enemy.  The  attack  was 
to  be  made  at  the  right  of  Engadir,  its  centre  breaking 
from  the  redoubt  manned  by  Fracasse's  men. 

"Marta,  you  genius!"  Lanstron  cried.  "You  are  the 
real  general!  You 

"Not  that,  please!"  she  broke  in.  "I'm  as  foul  and 
depraved  as  a  dealer  in  subtle  poisons  in  the  Middle 
Ages!  Oh,  the  shame  of  it,  while  I  look  into  his  eyes 
and  feign  admiration,  feign  everything  which  will  draw 
out  his  plans !  I  can  never  forget  the  sight  of  him  as  he 
told  me  how  two  or  three  or  four  hundred  thousand  men 
were  to  be  crowded  into  a  ram,  as  he  called  it — a  ram 


4i2  THE  LAST  SHOT 

of  human  flesh! — and  guns  enough  in  support,  he  said, 
to  tear  any  redoubts  to  pieces;  guns  enough  to  make 
their  shells  as  thick  as  the  bullets  from  an  auto 
matic!" 

"We'll  meet  ram  with  ram!  We'll  have  some  guns, 
too!"  exclaimed  Lanstron.  "We'll  send  as  heavy  a 
shell  fire  at  their  infantry  as  they  send  into  our  re 
doubts." 

"Yes;  oh,  yes!"  she  replied.  "Westerling  couldn't 
say  it  any  better!  What  difference  is  there  between 
you?  Each  at  his  desk  is  saying:  'This  regiment  will 
die  here;  that  regiment  will  die  there!'  I  bring  you 
word  of  one  human  ram  going  to  destruction  in  order 
that  you  may  send  another  to  destroy  and  be  destroyed ! 
And  I'm  worse  than  you.  I  am  the  go-between  in  the 
conspiracy  of  universal  murder,  sleeping  in  a  good  bed 
every  night,  in  no  danger — when  I  can  sleep;  but  I  can't. 
I  go  mad  from  thinking  of  my  part,  keying  myself  up 
deliriously  to  each  fresh  deceit!" 

With  every  sentence  her  voice  broke  and  it  seemed 
that  she  would  not  be  able  to  utter  another.  Yet  she 
kept  on  in  the  alternation  of  taut,  pitiful  monotone  and 
dry,  coughing  sobs. 

"How  have  I  ever  been  able  to  go  as  far  as  I  have? 
How  did  I  get  through  this  last  scene?  When  it  seems 
as  if  I  were  about  to  collapse,  something  supports  me. 
When  the  thing  grows  too  horrible  and  I  am  about  to 
cry  out  to  Westerling  that  I  am  false,  I  hear  his  boast 
that  he  made  the  war  as  a  last  step  in  his  ambition.  And 
there  is  Dellarme's  smile  rising  before  me.  He  died  so 
finely  in  defence  of  our  garden!  When  my  brain  goes 
numb  and  I  can't  think  what  to  say,  can't  act,  Feller 
appears,  prompting  with  ready  word  and  facile  change 
of  expression,  and  I  have  my  wits  again.  I  go  on!  I 
go  on!" 

A  racking  sob,  now,  and  silence;  then,  in  the  sudden 
effort  of  one  who  must  change  the  subject  to  hold  his 
sanity,  she  asked: 


THE  RAM  413 

"How  is  Feller?    Is  he  doing  well?" 

"Yes." 

"At  least  I  have  brought  him  happiness.  Some 
times  I  think  that  is  about  all  the  good  I  have  accom 
plished — I,  his  successor  in  carrying  out  your  plans! 
Oh,  I'm  burned  out,  Lanny!  I'm  ashes.  It  doesn't 
seem  that  I  can  ever  be  sane  or  clean  and  human  again. 
In  order  to  forget  I  should  have  to  find  a  new  life,  like 
Feller.  Each  morning  when  I  look  in  the  mirror  I  ex 
pect  to  see  my  hair  turned  white,  like  his." 

Lanstron  felt  her  suffering  as  if  it  were  his  own.  He 
had  let  his  patriotic  passion  overwhelm  every  other  con 
sideration.  He  had  allowed  her  to  be  a  spy;  he  had 
sacrificed  her  sensibilities  along  with  the  battalions  he 
had  sent  into  battle.  She  was  right:  he  was  only  the 
inhuman  head  of  a  machine.  And  she  and  Feller — they 
were  human.  Destiny  playing  in  the  crux  of  war's  in 
consistencies  had  formed  a  bond  between  them. 

"But,  go  on,  Lanny.  Play  your  part  as  you  see  it — 
as  Westerling  sees  his  and  Feller  his  and  I  mine,"  she 
said.  "That  is  the  only  logic  clear  to  me;  only  I  can't 
play  any  more.  I  haven't  the  strength." 

"Yes,  I  shall  go  on,  Marta,"  he  replied,  "but  you  must 
not.  Your  work  is  over,  and  perhaps  this  last  service 
may  bring  a  quick  end  and  save  countless  lives." 

"Don't.  It's  too  like  Westerling!  It  has  become  too 
trite!"  she  protested.  "The  end!  If  I  really  were 
helping  toward  that  and  to  save  lives  and  our  country 
to  its  people,  what  would  my  private  feelings  matter? 
My  honor,  my  soul — what  would  anything  matter? 
For  that,  any  sacrifice.  I'm  only  one  human  being — a 
weak,  lunatic  sort  of  one,  just  now!" 

"  Marta,  don't  suffer  so  !  You  are  overwrought. 
You 

"I  can  say  all  that  for  you,  Lanny,"  she  interrupted 
with  the  faintest  laugh.  "I've  said  it  so  many  times  to 
myself.  Perhaps  when  I  call  you  up  again  I  shall  not 
be  so  hysterical.  Tell  Feller  how  I  have  played  his 


4i4  THE  LAST  SHOT 

part,  and,  in  the  midst  of  all  your  responsibilities,  re 
member  to  give  him  a  chance." 

Lanstron  was  not  thinking  of  war  or  war's  combina 
tion  when  he  hung  up  the  receiver. 

"Yes,  it  is  Gustave!"  he  thought.     "I  understand!" 
It  was  some  moments  before  he  returned  to  the  staff 
room,  and  then  he  had  mastered  his  emotion.     He  was 
the  soldier  again. 

"They  are  clearing  the  wires  for  the  chief  of  staff  to 
speak  to  you,  sir,"  announced  the  telephone  aide  in 
Feller's  eyrie  artillery  lookout. 

Feller  received  the  word  with  his  clucking  "La,  la, 
la!"  and  hummed  a  tune  while  the  connection  was  being 
made.  He  had  not  spoken  with  Lanny  since  his  own 
promotion  to  a  colonelcy  and  Partow's  death. 

"My  ear-drums  split  for  joy  at  hearing  your  voice 
again!"  Feller  cried.  "A  regiment  of  guns  for  yours 
truly!  You've  made  me  the  happiest  man  in  the  world. 
And  haven't  I  smacked  the  Grays  in  the  tummy,  not  to 
mention  in  the  nose  and  on  the  shins!  Well,  I  should 
say  so!  La,  la,  la!" 

"You  certainly  have,  you  bully  old  boy!"  said  Lan 
stron.  "Miss  Galland  sends  her  congratulations  and 
regards." 

"Eh,  what?  Her  regards  to  me!  The  telephone  still 
continues  to  work?  Our  own  original  trunk-tunnel  pri 
vate  line?  Eh?  TeU  me;  tell  me,  quick!" 

"Yes,  she  has  performed  the  greatest  service  of  the 
war — better  than  you  could  have  done  it,  Gustave!" 

"Whee-ee!  Why  not?  Of  course!  I'm  not  surprised. 
She's  the  greatest  woman  in  the  world,  I  tell  you,  and 
I  know!  And  she  sends  her  regards  to  her  old  gardener? 
Think  of  that!  If  trouble  never  comes  singly,  why 
shouldn't  joys  come  in  a  pour?  Oh,  if  she  could  see  me 
now,  so  cosey  up  here  among  the  birds,  chucking  shells 
about  as  cheerily  as  if  I  were  tossing  roses  to  the  ladies 
in  a  ballroom!" 


THE  RAM  415 

"She  wants  you  to  have  every  chance,"  said  Lanstron. 

"She  asks  that  for  me!" 

The  peculiar  intimate  fervor  of  the  exclamation  sprang 
from  a  Feller  in  an  officer's  uniform  who  could  now  move 
in  Marta's  world.  Lanstron  hurried  on  to  explain  the 
nature  of  the  next  attack. 

"If  we  repulse  them  we  are  going  to  throw  in  a  ram  of 
our  own,"  he  said.  "We're  going  to  take  the  aggres 
sive  for  the  moment.  It  is  the  only  sure  policy  for  suc 
cessful  defence." 

"Right!  Now  you're  talking.  We  learned  that  prin 
ciple  at  school,  didn't  we?" 

"And  that  means  a  bigger  chance  for  you,  Gustave. 
We  are  bringing  up  reserve  artillery  and  making  new  dis 
positions.  I  am  going  to  give  you  charge  of  the  field- 
guns.  But  the  chief  of  artillery  will  tell  you  about  your 
work." 

"This  is  heaven,  Lanny!  How  am  I  ever  going 
A  j> 

"There,  no  thanks,  Gustave.  You  are  the  man.  It 
is  a  time  when  only  efficiency  must  be  considered." 

"Then  I  have  made  good!  Then  I've  been  worthy  of 
my  opportunity!  I'd  rather  be  a  good  gunner  than  a 
king,  I'll  eat  this  new  work  and  smack  my  lips  for 
more.  Tell  Miss  Galland  that  every  shell  that  hits 
the  mark  is  a  thought  from  the  old  gardener  for  her. 
Six  weeks  ago  trimming  rose-bushes  and  now — this  is 
life!  La,  la,  la!  There's  been  romance  and  destiny  in 
the  whole  business  for  us  both,  Lanny.  And  you — you 
are  acting  chief  of  staff!  I  forgot  to  congratulate  you, 
Your  Excellency.  Your  Excellency!  Think  of  that! 
But  it's  no  surprise  to  me.  Didn't  we  go  to  school  to 
gether?  How  could  any  one  ever  go  to  school  with  me 
and  not  be  a  great  man?  And  I'm  wearing  a  flower  in 
my  buttonhole!  La,  la,  la!" 

All  that  night  and  day  before  the  night  set  for  the 
attack,  while  the  guns  were  being  emplaced  and  the  in- 


4i6  THE  LAST  SHOT 

fan  try  formed  in  a  gray  carpet  behind  the  slopes,  a  chill, 
misty  rain  fell,  which  the  devout  of  the  Grays  might 
say  proved  that  God  was  with  them  rather  than  with 
the  Browns;  for  it  screened  their  movements  from  the 
Brown  lookouts.  The  judge's  son  and  Peterkin  and 
others  of  Fracasse's  company  had  finished  their  mine; 
the  fuses  were  laid.  There  was  no  dry  place  for  a  seat 
in  their  flooded  redoubt  and  they  had  to  stand,  eating 
cold  rations  and  shivering  in  their  filthy,  wet  clothes. 
The  whole  army  was  drenched;  the  whole  army  shivered. 

If  only  the  air  did  not  clear  when  darkness  fell!  The 
last  thing  the  staff  of  the  Grays  wanted  was  to  see  a 
star  in  the  sky.  Had  they  believed  in  prayer  they  would 
have  gone  on  their  knees  for  a  black  fog,  unaware  that 
all  that  they  would  hide  had  been  made  known  to  the 
Browns  through  Marta  almost  from  the  hour  that  the 
preparations  for  the  attack  were  begun. 

With  darkness,  the  rain  ceased ;  but  the  mist  remained 
a  thick  mantle  over  the  landscape,  impenetrable  to  the 
watchful  search-lights  of  the  Browns,  which  never  stopped 
playing  from  sunset  to  dawn.  The  gray  carpet  of  the 
reserves  that  were  to  form  Westerling's  ram  moved  over 
the  slopes,  dipping  and  rising  with  the  convolutions  of 
the  earth,  with  no  word  spoken  except  the  repeated 
whispered  warnings  of  silence  from  the  officers.  Sweep 
ing  on  up  toward  the  redoubts,  it  found  that  parallels 
and  trenches  had  been  filled  to  give  footing  for  the 
swifter  impulse  of  the  tide,  once  it  was  started  for  the 
heights. 

A  flash  from  Fracasse's  pocket  lamp  showed  faces 
pasty  white  and  eyes  of  staring  glassiness.  Fracasse's 
face  and  the  colonel's  were  also  white — white  with  the 
rigidity  of  carved  marble,  carved  with  a  set  frown  of 
determination.  Fracasse  was  going  in  with  his  company 
and  the  colonel  with  his  regiment.  It  was  their  duty. 
Both  realized  the  nature  of  the  risk;  and,  worse,  each 
knew  that  the  men  realized  it.  In  another  age,  when 
education  was  not  so  common  and  unthinking,  unfore- 


THE  RAM  417 

seeing  passion  could  be  aroused  in  ignorant  minds,  a 
stimulant  on  an  empty  stomach  might  have  made  them 
animals,  oblivious  to  danger.  They  were  about  to  offer 
their  lives  to  pave  the  way  for  others  to  reach  the  works 
that  none  of  them,  probably,  would  ever  reach.  For 
the  like  of  this,  in  gathering  the  enemy's  spears  to  his 
breast,  a  saga  had  risen  around  one  national  hero.  But 
Fracasse's  veterans  were  only  the  shivering  units  of  the 
millions;  the  part  of  the  machine  that  happened  to  be 
the  first  to  strike  another  machine  in  collision.  Such 
was  the  end  of  all  the  training,  the  marching,  the  drill 
ing  in  the  gallant  business  of  arms,  with  no  more  ro 
mance  or  glory  than  beeves  going  to  the  slaughter. 

"You'll  be  the  first  out  into  the  glacis,  the  first  into 
the  enemy's  redoubt,"  said  the  colonel,  forcing  a  tone  of 
good,  old-fashioned  "up-guards-and-at-'em"  vigor,  as 
he  touched  the  bronze  cross  on  Peterkin's  breast  with 
his  forefinger. 

Little  Peterkin,  always  pale  but  not  so  pale  now  as 
his  comrades,  flushed  at  the  distinction. 

"Yes,  sir!"  and  he  saluted. 

In  his  eyes  was  the  exaltation  of  his  simple-minded 
faith.  He  did  not  think  too  much.  What  more  could 
kings  and  conquerors  ask  than  such  a  soldier  as  the 
valet's  son,  secure  in  the  belief  that  his  charmed  life 
would  bring  him  through  the  assault  unharmed? 

"My  God!  I  can't!"  exclaimed  the  banker's  son. 
"I've  suffered  enough.  There's  life  and  wealth  and  all 
that  it  gives  waiting  for  me  at  home!  I'm  young — I 
can't!" 

There  was  a  rustle  of  bodies  in  a  restless  movement  of 
drawn  breaths  at  common  thought  taking  form,  desper 
ately  fraught  with  alarm  to  Fracasse. 

"You  will!"  Fracasse  said,  thrusting  his  revolver 
muzzle  against  the  ribs  of  the  banker's  son.  "If  you 
don't,  I'll  shoot  you  dead,  or  you'll  be  trampled  to  death 
by  the  rush  from  the  rear!" 

The  wedge  point  may  not  strike  back  at  the  hammer 


4i8  THE  LAST  SHOT 

that  drives  it.  Close  packed  behind  Fracasse's  company 
was  a  seemingly  limitless  mass  of  soldiery,  palpitant  with 
their  short  breaths,  a  steamy,  sickening  odor  rising  from 
their  water-soaked  clothes.  Here  were  men  so  wet,  so 
tired,  so  nerve- worn  that  they  did  not  care  when  death 
came;  men  who  wanted  to  curse  and  strike  out  against 
their  fate;  men  who  wanted  to  turn  in  flight,  their 
natural  impulse  held  down  by  the  bonds  of  discipline 
and  that  pride  of  fellowship  which  is  shamed  to  con 
fess  to  a  shiver  along  the  spine.  Some  saw  pictures  of 
home,  of  sweethearts;  some  saw  nothing.  Some  were 
in  a  coma  of  merciless  suspense  that  grew  more  and 
more  unendurable,  until  it  seemed  that  anything  to 
break  it  would  be  welcome. 

Occasionally  came  a  sob  from  a  man  gone  hysterical 
under  the  strain,  a  moan  of  mental  misery;  and  once  a 
laugh,  a  strange,  hiccoughy,  delirious  laugh,  a  strident 
attempt  at  the  wit  that  keeps  up  courage;  and  from 
Pilzer,  the  butcher's  son,  a  string  of  oaths  mixed  with 
brimstone  and  obscenity.  After  each  outbreak  an 
automatic,  irritable  whisper  for  silence  came  from  an 
officer.  Legs  and  arms,  bodies  and  souls  and  brains 
in  a  nauseating  press !  Humanity  reckoned  by  the  pound, 
high-priced  from  breeding  and  rearing  and  training;  yet 
very  cheap. 

Hearts  thumped  and  watches  ticked  off  the  time,  until 
suddenly  the  heavens  were  racked  by  the  prologue  of  the 
guns.  Child's  play  that  baptism  of  shell  fire  in  the  first 
charge  of  the  war  beside  later  thunders;  and  these,  in 
turn,  mild  beside  this  terrific  outburst,  with  all  the  ar 
tillery  concentrated  to  support  the  ram  in  a  sudden  blast. 
The  passing  projectiles  formed  the  continuous  scream 
and  roar  of  some  many-toned  siren  that  penetrated  the 
flesh  as  well  as  the  ears  with  its  sound.  Orders  could 
not  have  been  heard  if  given.  There  was  no  need  for 
orders.  Fracasse,  counting  off  the  minutes  between 
him  and  eternity  on  his  watch  face  by  his  flash-light,  saw 
that  ten  had  passed.  Then  his  finger  that  pressed  a 


THE  RAM  419 

button,  his  brain  that  spoke  to  his  hand,  were  those  of 
an  automaton  acting  by  time  release.  He  exploded  the 
mine.  This  was  the  signal  for  the  charge;  for  all  the 
legs  of  the  ram  to  move. 


XLIII 
JOVE'S  ISOLATION 

AN  hour  or  so  before  the  attack  the  telegraph  instru 
ments  in  the  Galland  house  had  become  pregnantly 
silent.  There  were  no  more  orders  to  give;  no  more 
reports  to  come  from  the  troops  in  position  until  the 
assault  was  made.  Officers  of  supply  ceased  to  trans 
mit  routine  matters  over  the  wire,  while  they  strained 
their  eyes  toward  the  range.  Officers  of  the  staff  moved 
about  restlessly,  glancing  at  their  watches  and  going  to 
the  windows  frequently  to  see  if  the  mist  still  held. 

No  one  entered  the  library  where  Westerling  was 
seated  alone  with  nothing  to  do.  His  suspense  was 
that  of  the  mothers  who  longed  for  news  of  their  sons 
at  the  front;  his  helplessness  that  of  a  man  in  a  hospital 
lobby  waiting  on  the  result  of  an  operation  whose  suc 
cess  or  failure  will  save  or  wreck  his  career.  The 
physical  desire  of  movement,  the  conflict  with  something 
in  his  own  mind,  drove  him  out  of  doors. 

"I  want  to  blow  my  lungs  in  the  fresh  air!  Call  me 
if  I  am  needed.  I  shall  be  in  the  garden,"  he  told  his 
aide;  and  he  thought  that  his  voice  sounded  calm  and 
natural,  as  became  Jove  in  a  crisis  that  unnerved  lesser 
men.  "Though  I  fancy  it  is  the  other  chief  of  staff  who 
will  have  the  work  to  do  this  evening,  eh?"  he  added, 
forcing  one  of  the  smiles  which  had  been  the  magnetic 
servant  of  his  personal  force  in  his  rise  to  power. 

"Yes,  Your  Excellency,"  said  the  aide. 

Westerling  was  rather  pleased  with  the  fact  that  he 
could  still  smile;  pleased  with  the  loyalty  of  this  young 
officer  when,  day  by  day,  the  rest  of  the  staff  had  grown 
colder  and  more  mechanical  in  the  attitude  that  com- 

420 


JOVE'S  ISOLATION  421 

pie  ted  his  isolation.  Walking  vigorously  along  the  path 
toward  the  tower,  the  exercise  of  his  muscles,  the  feel 
of  the  cool,  moist  air  on  his  face,  brought  back  some  of 
the  buoyancy  of  spirit  that  he  craved.  A  woman's 
figure,  with  a  cape  thrown  over  the  shoulders  and  the 
head  bare,  loomed  out  of  the  mist. 

"I  couldn't  stay  in — not  to-night,"  Marta  said,  as 
Westerling  drew  near.  "I  had  to  see.  It's  only  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  now,  isn't  it?" 

"The  Browns  may  sing  'God  with  us/  but  He  seems 
to  have  been  with  the  Grays,"  Westerling  answered. 
"Our  whole  movement  was  perfectly  screened  by  the 
heavy  weather." 

"But  they  know — they  know  every  detail  that  you 
have  told  me!"  ran  her  mocking,  scarifying  thought. 
"And  this  will  be  the  most  terrible  attack  of  all?"  she 
asked  faintly. 

"Yes,  such  a  concentration  of  men  and  guns  as  never 
were  driven  against  any  position — an  irresistible  force," 
he  said.  "Irresistible!"  he  repeated  with  a  heavy  em 
phasis. 

"But  if  the  Browns  did  know  where  you  were  going 
to  attack?"  she  asked  absently  and  still  more  faintly. 
"The  sacrifice  of  lives  then  would  be  all  the  greater?" 

"Yes,  we  should  have  to  pay  a  higher  price,  but  still 
we  should  be  irresistible — irresistible!"  he  answered. 

Ghastly  faces  were  staring  at  her,  their  lips  moving 
in  death  to  excoriate  her.  It  was  not  too  late  to  tell 
him  the  truth;  not  too  late  to  stop  the  attack.  Her 
head  had  sunk;  she  trembled  and  swayed  and  a  kind  of 
moan  escaped  her.  She  seemed  utterly  frail  and  so 
distraught  that  Westerling,  in  an  impulse  of  protection, 
laid  his  hands  on  her  relaxed  shoulders.  She  could  feel 
the  pressure  of  each  finger  growing  firmer  in  its  power, 
while  a  certain  eloquence  possessed  him  in  defiance  of 
his  apprehensions. 

"Our  cause  is  at  stake  to-night,"  he  declared,  "yours 
and  mine !  We  must  win,  you  and  I !  It  is  our  destiny ! " 


422  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"You  and  I!"  repeated  Marta.     "Why  you  and  I?" 

It  seemed  very  strange  to  be  thinking  of  any  two  per 
sons  when  hundreds  of  thousands  were  awaiting  the 
signal  for  the  death  prepared  by  him.  He  mistook  the 
character  of  her  thought  in  the  obsession  of  his  egoism. 

"What  do  lives  mean?"  he  cried  with  a  sudden  des 
peration,  his  grip  of  her  shoulders  tightening.  "It  is 
the  law  of  nature  for  man  to  fight.  Unless  he  fights 
he  goes  to  seed.  One  trouble  with  our  army  is  that  it 
was  soft  from  the  want  of  war.  It  is  the  law  of  nature 
for  the  fittest  to  survive!  Other  sons  will  be  born  to 
take  the  place  of  those  who  die  to-night.  There  will  be 
all  the  more  room  for  those  who  live.  Victory  will 
create  new  opportunities.  What  is  a  million  out  of  the 
billions  on  the  face  of  the  earth?  Those  who  lead  alone 
count — those  who  dwell  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  peaks, 
as  we  do!"  The  pressure  of  his  strong  hands  in  the  un 
conscious  emphasis  of  his  passion  became  painful;  but 
she  did  not  protest  or  try  to  draw  away,  thinking  of  his 
hold  in  no  personal  sense  but  as  a  part  of  his  self- 
revelation.  "All — all  is  at  stake  there!"  he  continued, 
staring  toward  the  range.  "It's  the  Rubicon!  I  have 
put  my  career  on  to-night's  cast!  Victory  means  that 
the  world  will  be  at  our  feet — honor,  position,  power 
greater  than  that  of  any  other  two  human  beings!  Do 
you  realize  what  that  means — the  honor  and  the  power 
that  will  be  ours?  I  shall  have  directed  the  greatest 
army  the  world  has  ever  known  to  victory!" 

"And  defeat  means — what  does  defeat  mean?"  she 
asked  narrowly,  calmly;  and  the  pointed  question  re 
leased  her  shoulders  from  the  vise. 

What  had  been  a  shadow  in  his  thoughts  became  a 
live  monster,  striking  him  with  the  force  of  a  blow. 
He  forgot  Marta.  Yes,  what  would  defeat  mean  to 
him?  Sheer  human  nature  broke  through  the  bonds 
of  mental  discipline  weakened  by  sleepless  nights.  Con 
vulsively  his  head  dropped  as  he  covered  his  face. 

"Defeat!     Fail!    That  I  should  fail!"  he  moaned. 


JOVE'S  ISOLATION  423 

Then  it  was  that  she  saw  him  in  the  reality  of  his  lit 
tleness,  which  she  had  divined;  this  would-be  conqueror. 
She  saw  him  as  his  intimates  often  see  the  great  man 
without  his  front  of  Jove.  Don't  we  know  that  Na 
poleon  had  moments  of  privacy  when  he  whined  and 
threatened  suicide?  She  wondered  if  Lanny,  too,  were 
like  that — if  it  were  not  the  nature  of  all  conquerors 
who  could  not  have  their  way.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
Westerling  was  beneath  the  humblest  private  in  his 
army — beneath  even  that  fellow  with  the  liver  patch  on 
his  cheek  who  had  broken  the  chandelier  in  the  sport  of 
brutal  passion.  All  sense  of  her  own  part  was  sub 
merged  in  the  sight  of  a  chief  of  staff  exhibiting  no  more 
stoicism  than  a  petulant,  spoiled  schoolboy. 

While  his  head  was  still  bent  the  artillery  began  its 
crashing  thunders  and  the  sky  became  light  with  flashes. 
His  hands  stretched  out  toward  the  range,  clenched  and 
pulsing  with  defiance  and  command. 

"Coin!  Go  in,  as  I  told  you!"  he  cried.  "Stay  in, 
alive  or  dead!  Stay  till  I  tell  you  to  come  out!  Stay! 
I  can't  do  any  more!  You  must  do  it  now!" 

"Then  this  may  be  truly  the  end,"  thought  Marta, 
"if  the  assault  fails." 

And  silently  she  prayed  that  it  would  fail;  while  the 
flashes  lighted  Westerling's  set  features,  imploring  suc 
cess. 

No  commander  was  a  more  prodigal  employer  of  spies 
than  Napoleon.  Did  he  or  any  other  conqueror  ever 
acknowledge  a  success  due  to  the  despised  outcasts  who 
brought  him  information?  No.  The  brilliance  of  com 
binations,  the  stroke  of  genius  of  the  swift  march  and 
the  decisive  blow  in  flank,  the  splendid  charges — these 
always  win  in  the  historian's  narrative  and  public 
imagination.  Think  of  any  place  in  the  frieze  of  the 
statue  of  the  great  leader  for  that  hypocrite,  that  poor 
devil  in  disguise,  whose  news  made  the  victory  pos 
sible! 


424  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"  Good  generalship  is  easy  if  you  know  what  the  enemy 
is  going  to  do,"  Lanstron  remarked  to  a  member  of  the 
staff  council  who  said  something  complimentary  to  him. 
Compliments  from  subordinates  to  superiors  had  not 
received  Partow's  favor  and,  therefore,  not  Lanstron's. 
Eccentric  old  Partow  had  once  disparaged  the  Na 
poleonic  idea  as  a  fetich  which  had  nothing  to  do  with 
modern  military  efficiency,  and  he  had  added  that  if 
Napoleon  were  alive  to-day  nobody  would  be  so  prompt 
to  see  it  as  Napoleon  himself.  If  he  did  not,  and  tried 
to  incarnate  the  idea  of  the  time  by  making  himself  the 
supreme  genius  of  war,  he  would  fail,  because  ability 
was  too  nearly  universal  and  the  age  too  big  for  another 
Colossus. 

Through  Marta's  information  every  detail  of  Wester- 
ling's  plan  outlined  itself  to  the  trained  minds  of  the 
Brown  staff.  Amazement  at  their  dependence  on  an  un 
derground  wire  and  a  woman's  word  for  shaping  vast 
affairs  was  not  reflected  in  any  scepticism  or  hesitation 
as  to  the  method  of  meeting  the  assault. 

The  fortifications  that  had  sheltered  the  Brown  in 
fantry,  including  Stransky's  men  of  the  53d,  would  be 
the  object  of  the  artillery  fire  which  was  to  support  the 
Gray  charge.  Well  Lanstron  knew  that  no  fortifica 
tions  could  withstand  the  gusts  of  shells  to  be  concen 
trated  on  such  a  small  target.  The  defenders  could  not 
see  to  fire  for  the  dust.  Their  rifles  would  be  knocked 
out  of  their  hands  by  the  concussions.  They  must  be 
crushed  or  imprisoned  by  the  destruction  of  the  very 
walls  that  had  been  their  protection.  So  they  were  with 
drawn  to  other  redoubts  in  the  rear,  where  a  line  of 
automatics  placed  under  their  rifles  were  in  pointblank 
range  of  their  old  position  which  the  Grays'  shells  would 
tear  to  pieces. 

Back  of  them  was  a  brown  carpet  of  waiting  soldiery 
of  as  close  a  pile  as  Westerling's  carpet  of  gray.  The 
rain-drenched  Brown  engineers  dug  as  fast  as  the  en 
emy's.  Lanstron  massed  artillery  against  massed  artil- 


JOVE'S  ISOLATION  425 

lery.  For  every  Gray  gun  he  had  more  than  one  Brown 
gun.  The  Grays  might  excel  by  ratio  of  five  to  three  in 
human  avoirdupois,  but  a  willing  Brown  government 
had  been  generous  with  funds.  Money  will  buy  guns 
and  skill  will  man  them.  Battery  back  of  battery  in 
literal  tiers,  small  calibres  in  front  and  heavy  calibres 
in  the  rear,  with  ranges  fixed  to  given  points — more 
guns  than  ever  fired  on  a  single  position  before — were  to 
pour  their  exploding  projectiles  not  into  redoubts  but 
into  the  human  wedge. 

In  the  Browns'  headquarters,  as  in  the  Grays',  tele 
graph  instruments  were  silent  after  the  preparations 
were  over.  Here,  also,  officers  walked  about  restlessly, 
glancing  at  their  watches.  They,  too,  were  glad  that  the 
mist  continued.  It  meant  no  wind.  When  the  tele 
graph  did  speak  it  was  with  another  message  from  some 
aerostatic  officer,  saying,  "  Still  favorable,"  which  was 
taken  at  once  to  Lanstron,  who  was  with  the  staff  chiefs 
around  the  big  table.  They  nodded  at  the  news  and 
smiled  to  one  another;  and  some  who  had  been  pacing 
sat  down  and  others  rose  to  begin  pacing  afresh. 

"We  could  have  emplaced  two  lines  of  automatics, 
one  above  the  other!"  exclaimed  the  chief  of  artillery. 

"But  that  would  have  given  too  much  of  a  climb  for 
the  infantry  in  going  in — delayed  the  rush,"  said  Lan 
stron. 

"If  they  should  stick — if  we  couldn't  drive  them 
back!"  exclaimed  the  vice-chief  of  staff. 

"I  don't  think  they  will!"  said  Lanstron. 

To  the  others  he  seemed  as  cool  as  ever,  even  when 
his  maimed  hand  was  twitching  in  his  pocket.  But 
now,  suddenly,  his  eyes  starting  as  at  a  horror,  he 
trembled  passionately,  his  head  dropping  forward,  as  if 
he  would  collapse. 

"Oh,  the  murder  of  it — the  murder!"  he  breathed. 

"But  they  brought  it  on!  Not  for  theirs,  but  for 
ours!"  said  the  vice-chief  of  staff,  laying  his  hand  on 
Lanstron's  shoulder. 


426  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"And  we  sit  here  while  they  go  in!"  Lanstron  added. 
"There's  a  kind  of  injustice  about  that  which  I  can't 
get  over.  Not  one  of  us  here  has  been  under  fire!" 

Even  the  minute  of  the  attack  they  knew;  and  just 
before  midnight  they  were  standing  at  the  window 
looking  out  into  the  night,  while  the  vice-chief  held  his 
watch  in  hand.  In  the  hush  the  faint  sound  of  a  diri 
gible's  propeller  high  up  in  the  heavens,  muffled  by  the 
fog,  was  drowned  by  the  Gray  guns  opening  fire. 

Before  the  mine  exploded,  by  the  light  of  the  shell 
bursts  breaking  their  vast  prisms  from  central  spheres 
of  flame  for  miles,  with  the  quick  sequence  of  a  moving- 
picture  flicker,  Fracasse's  men  could  see  one  another's 
faces,  spectral  and  stiff  and  pasty  white,  with  teeth 
gleaming  where  jaws  had  dropped,  some  eyes  half  closed 
by  the  blinding  flashes  and  some  opened  wide  as  if  the 
lids  were  paralyzed.  Faces  and  faces!  A  sea  of  faces 
stretching  away  down  the  slope — faces  in  a  trance. 

Up  over  the  breastworks,  over  rocks  and  splintered 
timbers,  Peterkin  and  the  judge's  son  and  their  comrades 
clambered.  When  they  moved  they  were  as  a  myriad- 
legged  creature,  brain  numbed,  without  any  sensation 
except  that  of  rapids  going  over  a  fall.  Those  in  front 
could  not  falter,  being  pushed  on  by  the  pressure  of 
those  in  the  rear.  For  a  few  steps  they  were  under 
no  fire.  The  scream  of  their  own  shells  breaking  in 
infernal  pandemonium  in  front  seemed  to  be  a  power  as 
irresistible  as  the  rear  of  the  wedge  in  driving  them  on. 

Then  sounds  more  hideous  than  the  flight  of  projec 
tiles  broke  about  them  with  the  abruptness  of  lightnings 
held  in  the  hollow  of  the  Almighty's  hand  and  suddenly 
released.  The  Browns'  guns  had  opened  fire.  Explo 
sions  were  even  swifter  in  sequence  than  the  flashes 
that  revealed  the  stark  faces.  Dust  and  stones  and 
flying  fragments  of  flesh  filled  the  air.  Men  went  down 
in  positive  paralysis  of  faculties  by  the  terrific  crashes. 
Sections  of  the  ram  were  blown  to  pieces  by  the  burst  of 


JOVE'S  ISOLATION  427 

a  shrapnel  shoulder  high;  other  sections  were  lifted 
heavenward  by  a  shell  burst  in  the  earth. 

Peterkin  fell  with  a  piece  of  jagged  steel  embedded  in 
his  brain.  He  had  gone  from  the  quick  to  the  dead  so 
swiftly  that  he  never  knew  that  his  charm  had  failed. 
The  same  explosion  got  Fracasse,  sword  in  hand,  and 
another  buried  him  where  he  lay.  The  banker's  son 
went  a  little  farther;  the  barber's  son  still  farther.  Men 
who  were  alive  hardly  realized  life,  so  mixed  were  life 
and  death.  Infernal  imagination  goes  faint;  its  wildest 
similes  grow  feeble  and  banal  before  such  a  consum 
mation  of  hell. 

But  the  tide  keeps  on;  the  torn  gaps  of  the  ram  are 
filled  by  the  rushing  legs  from  the  rear.  Officers  urge 
and  lead.  Such  are  the  orders;  such  is  the  duty  pre 
scribed;  such  is  human  bravery  even  in  these  days  when 
life  is  sweeter  to  more  men  in  the  joys  of  mind  and  body 
than  ever  before.  Precision,  organization,  solidarity 
in  this  charge  such  as  the  days  of  the  "  death-or-glory  " 
boys  never  knew!  Over  the  bodies  of  Peterkin  and  the 
barber's  and  the  banker's  sons,  plunging  through  shell 
craters,  stumbling,  staggering,  cut  by  swaths  and  torn 
by  eddies  of  red  destruction  in  their  ranks,  the  tide 
proceeded,  until  its  hosts  were  oftener  treading  on  flesh 
than  on  soil.  And  all  they  knew  was  to  keep  on — keep 
on,  bayonet  in  hand,  till  they  reached  the  redoubt,  and 
there  they  were  to  stay,  alive  or  dead. 

In  that  pulsating,  fierce  light,  while  the  ground  under 
their  feet  trembled  with  the  concussions,  Westerling's 
face  was  as  clear  to  Marta  as  if  he  were  staring  in  at  a 
furnace  door.  The  lines  of  breeding  and  of  restrained 
authority  which  gave  it  distinction  had  faded.  It  had 
the  eager  ferocity  of  the  hunt.  His  short,  tense  excla 
mations  explained  the  stages  of  progress  of  the  attack 
as  revealed  to  his  sight. 

"It  cannot  fail!  No!  Impossible!  Look  at  the 
speed  of  our  gun-fire!  But  I  judge  that  we  have  not 


428  THE  LAST  SHOT 

been  able  to  silence  as  many  of  their  guns  as  we  ought 
to — they're  using  shell  into  our  close  order.  But  all 
the  guns  in  creation  shall  not  stop  us!  I  have  men 
enough  this  time — enough,  enough,  enough!  There! 
Our  shorter-range  guns  have  ceased  firing!  That  shows 
we  are  in  the  redoubts.  The  longer-range  guns  con 
tinue.  They  are  firing  beyond  the  redoubt  against  any 
counter-attack,  if  the  Browns  try  to  recover  what  they 
have  lost.  But  every  minute  brings  another  battalion 
into  place.  Engineers  and  guns  will  follow.  The  war 
is  as  good  as  won!" 

He  caught  at  Marta's  hand,  but  she  drew  away;  and 
her  start  of  revulsion  at  his  touch  was  almost  coincident 
with  a  start  on  his  part  for  another  reason.  A  huge 
shadow  shot  at  railway-train  speed  over  their  heads. 
Something  very  like  fear  flashed  into  his  expression. 

"One  of  our  dirigibles!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  confess 
it  came  so  near  that  it  gave  me  a  sort  of  shock,  too." 

"Only  a  shadow  with  no  death  in  it,"  she  said.  "And 
there  is  death  in  every  flash  there  on  the  range.  General 
Westerling,  have  you  ever  been  under  fire?"  she  asked 
suddenly. 

He  had  scarcely  heard  the  question.  He  took  a  step 
forward,  with  head  raised  and  shading  his  eyes. 

"Not  ours!  One  of  theirs!"  he  exclaimed.  "Theirs 
—and  any  number  of  theirs!" 

Driving  toward  the  volcano's  centre  were  many  Brown 
dirigibles,  slowing  down  as  they  approached.  Greater 
eruptions  than  any  from  shells  rose  from  the  earth  as 
they  passed. 

"So  that's  what  they've  had  their  dirigibles  in  re 
serve  for — for  the  last  desperate  defence!"  he  said. 
"The  defence  that  can  never  win!  Not  their  dirigibles 
— not  any  power  known  to  man  can  stop  my  men.  I 
have  sent  in  so  many  that  enough  must  survive.  But 
where  are  our  dirigibles?  A  few  are  up — why  don't 
they  close  in?  And  our  guns — why  don't  they  fire  at  a 
target  before  their  eyes  as  big  as  a  house?  There  they 


JOVE'S  ISOLATION  429 

go,  and  they  got  one!" — as  a  circle  of  flame  brighter  than 
the  illumination  of  other  explosions  broke  in  the  sky. 
"And  one  of  ours  is  closing  in!  Look,  both  have  blown 
up  as  they  collided!  That  shows  that  two  can  play  at 
the  game!  But  what  a  swarm  they  have — more  than  we 
knew!  Bouchard's  intelligence  at  fault  again!  However, 
if  they  try  to  stop  our  fortifying  the  redoubt  our  guns 
will  care  for  them.  That  clever  trick  of  Lanstron's  may 
have  cost  us  a  few  extra  casualties,  but  it  will  not  change 
the  result.  It's  time  we  had  details  over  the  wire,"  he 
concluded,  turning  back  to  the  house  rather  precipi 
tately.  "Then  there  may  be  work  for  me." 

"After  hell,  more  hell,  and  then  still  more  hell!"  was 
the  way  that  Stransky  expressed  his  thought  when  the 
engineers  had  taken  the  place  of  the  53d  of  the  Browns 
in  the  redoubt.  They  put  their  mines  and  connections 
deep  enough  not  to  be  disturbed  by  shell  fire.  After  the 
survivors  in  the  van  of  the  Grays'  charge,  spent  of  breath, 
reached  their  goal  and  threw  themselves  down,  the  earth 
under  them,  as  the  mine  exploded,  split  and  heaved 
heavenward.  But  those  in  the  "rear,  slapped  in  the  face 
by  the  concussion,  kept  on,  driven  by  the  pressure  of 
the  mass  at  their  backs,  and,  in  turn,  plunged  forward 
on  their  stomachs  in  the  seams  and  furrows  of  the  mine's 
havoc.  The  mass  thickened  as  the  flood  of  bodies  and 
legs  banked  up,  in  keeping  with  Westerling's  plan  to  have 
"enough  to  hold." 

Now  the  automatics  and  the  rifles  from  the  redoubt 
to  which  the  Browns  had  fallen  back  opened  fire.  So 
close  together  were  these  bullet-machines  that  the  orbit 
of  each  one's  swing  made  a  spray  of  only  a  few  yards' 
breadth  over  the  old  redoubt,  where  the  Browns'  gun 
fire  had  not  for  a  moment  ceased  its  persistent  shelling, 
with  increasingly  large  and  solid  targets  of  flesh  for  their 
practice.  The  thing  for  these  targets  to  do,  they  knew, 
was  to  intrench  and  begin  to  return  the  infantry  and 
automatics'  fire.  Desperately,  with  the  last  effort  of 


430  THE  LAST  SHOT 

courage,  they  rose  in  the  attempt — rose  into  playing 
hose  streams  of  bullets  whose  close  hiss  was  a  steady 
undertone  between  shell  bursts.  In  the  garish,  jump 
ing  light  brave  officers  impulsively  stood  up  to  hearten 
their  commands  in  their  work,  and  dropped  with  half- 
uttered  urgings,  threats,  and  oaths  on  their  lips. 

The  bullets  from  the  automatics  missing  one  mark 
were  certain  to  find  another,  perhaps  four  or  five  in  a 
row,  such  was  their  velocity  and  power  of  penetration. 
Where  shells  made  gaps  and  tore  holes  in  the  human 
mass,  the  automatics  cut  with  the  regularity  of  the 
driven  teeth  of  a  comb.  The  men  who  escaped  all  the 
forms  of  slaughter  and  staggered  on  to  the  ruins  of 
the  redoubt,  pressed  their  weight  on  top  of  those  in  the 
craters  or  hugged  behind  the  pyramids  of  debris,  and 
even  made  breastworks  from  the  bodies  of  the  dead. 
The  more  that  banked  up,  the  more  fruitless  the  efforts 
of  the  officers  to  restore  order  in  the  frantic  medley  of 
shell  screams  and  explosions  at  a  time  when  a  minute 
seemed  an  age. 

Meanwhile,  between  them — this  banked-up  force  at 
the  charge's  end — and  the  Brown  redoubt  with  its 
automatics,  the  Gray  gunners  were  making  a  zone  of 
shell  bursts  in  order  to  give  the  soldiers  time  to  make 
their  hold  of  the  ground  they  had  gained  secure.  Through 
this  zone  Stransky  and  his  men  were  to  lead  the  Browns 
in  a  counter-attack. 

At  the  very  height  of  the  Gray  charge,  when  all  the 
reserves  were  in,  dark  objects  fell  out  of  the  heavens, 
and  where  they  dropped  earth  and  flesh  were  mingled  in 
the  maceration.  Like  some  giant  reptile  with  its  ver 
tebrae  breaking,  gouged  and  torn  and  pinioned,  the 
charge  stopped,  in  writhing,  throbbing  confusion. 
Those  on  the  outer  circle  of  explosions  were  thrown 
against  their  fellows,  who  surged  back  in  another  di 
rection  from  an  explosion  in  the  opposite  quarter.  From 
the  rear  the  pressure  weakened;  the  human  hammer  was 
no  longer  driving  the  ram.  Blinded  by  the  lightnings 


JOVE'S  ISOLATION  431 

and  dust,  dizzy  from  concussions  and  noise,  too  blank  of 
mind  to  be  sane  or  insane,  the  atoms  of  the  bulk  of  the 
charge  in  natural  instinct  turned  from  their  goal  and 
toward  the  place  whence  they  had  come,  with  death  from 
all  sides  still  buffeting  them.  Staggeringly,  at  first,  they 
went,  for  want  of  initiative  in  their  paralysis;  then 
rapidly,  as  the  law  of  self-preservation  asserted  itself  in 
wild  impulse. 

As  sheep  driven  over  a  precipice  they  had  advanced; 
as  men  they  fled.  There  was  no  longer  any  command, 
no  longer  any  cohesion,  except  of  legs  struggling  in  and 
out  over  the  uneven  footing  of  dead  and  wounded,  while 
they  felt  another  pressure,  that  of  the  mass  of  the  Browns 
in  pursuit.  Of  all  those  of  Fracasse's  company  whom 
we  know,  only  the  judge's  son  and  Jacob  Pilzer  were 
alive.  Stained  with  blood  and  dust,  his  teeth  showing 
in  a  grimace  of  mocking  hate  of  all  humankind,  Pilzer 's 
savagery  ran  free  of  the  restraint  of  discipline  and 
civilized  convention.  Striking  right  and  left,  he  forced 
his  way  out  of  the  region  of  shell  nre  and  still  kept  on. 
Clubbing  his  rifle,  he  struck  down  one  officer  who  tried 
to  detain  him;  but  another  officer,  quicker  than  he,  put 
a  revolver  bullet  through  his  head. 

Westerling,  who  had  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  in 
Marta's  presence  at  the  thought  of  failure,  must  keep  the 
pose  of  his  position  before  the  staff.  With  chin  drawn 
in  and  shoulders  squared  in  a  sort  of  petrified  military 
habit,  he  received  the  feverish  news  that  grew  worse  with 
each  brief  bulletin.  He,  the  chief  of  staff;  he,  Hedworth 
Westerling,  the  superman,  must  be  a  rock  in  the  flood  of 
alarm.  When  he  heard  that  his  human  ram  was  in  re 
coil  he  declared  that  the  repulse  had  been  exaggerated — 
repulses  always  were.  With  word  that  a  heavy  counter 
attack  was  turning  the  retreat  into  an  ungovernable 
rout,  he  broke  into  a  storm.  He  was  not  beaten;  he 
could  not  be  beaten. 

"Let  our  guns  cut  a  few  swaths  in  the  mob ! "  he  cried. 


432  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"That  will  stop  them  from  running  and  bring  them  back 
to  a  sense  of  duty  to  their  country." 

The  irritating  titter  of  the  bell  in  the  closet  off  the 
library  only  increased  his  defiance  of  facts  beyond  con 
trol.  He  went  to  the  long  distance  with  a  reply  to  the 
premier's  inquiry  ready  to  his  lips. 

"We  got  into  the  enemy's  works  but  had  to  fall  back 
temporarily,"  he  said. 

"Temporarily!  What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  the 
premier. 

"I  mean  that  we  have  only  begun  to  attack! "  declared 
Westerling.  He  liked  that  sentence.  It  sounded  like 
the  shibboleth  of  a  great  leader  in  a  crisis.  "I  shall 
assault  again  to-morrow  night." 

"Then  your  losses  were  not  heavy?" 

"No,  not  relatively.  To-morrow  night  we  press  home 
the  advantage  we  gained  to-night." 

"But  you  have  been  so  confident  each  time.  You  still 
think  that— 

"That  I  mean  to  win!  There  is  no  stopping  half 
way." 

"Well,  I'll  still  try  to  hold  the  situation  here,"  re 
plied  the  premier.  "But  keep  me  informed." 

Drugged  by  his  desperate  stubbornness,  Westerling 
was  believing  in  his  star  again  when  he  returned  to  the 
library.  All  the  greater  his  success  for  being  won  against 
scepticism  and  fears!  He  summoned  his  chiefs  of  divi 
sions,  who  came  with  the  news  that  the  Browns  had  taken 
the  very  redoubt  from  which  the  head  of  the  Gray  charge 
had  started;  but  there  they  had  stopped. 

"Of  course!  Of  course  they  stopped!"  exclaimed 
Westerling.  "They  are  not  mad.  A  few  are  not  going 
to  throw  themselves  against  superior  numbers — our 
superior  numbers  beaten  by  our  own  panic!  Lanstron 
is  not  a  fool.  You'll  find  the  Browns  back  in  their  old 
position,  working  like  beavers  to  make  new  defences  in 
the  morning.  Meanwhile,  we'll  get  that  mob  of  ours 
into  shape  and  find  out  what  made  them  lose  their  nerve. 


JOVE'S  ISOLATION  433 

To-morrow  night  we  shall  have  as  many  more  behind 
them.  We  are  going  to  attack  again!" 

The  staff  exchanged  glances  of  amazement,  and  Tur- 
cas,  his  dry  voice  crackling  like  parchment,  exclaimed: 

"Attack  again?    At  the  same  point?" 

"Yes — the  one  place  to  attack!"  said  Westerling. 
"The  rest  of  our  line  has  abundant  reserves;  a  needless 
number  for  anything  but  the  offensive.  We'll  leave 
enough  to  hold  and  draw  off  the  rest  to  Engadir  at  once." 

"But  their  dirigibles!  A  surprising  number  of  them 
are  over  our  lines,"  Bellini,  the  chief  of  intelligence,  had 
the  temerity  to  say. 

"You  will  send  our  planes  and  dirigibles  to  bring  down 
theirs!"  Westerling  commanded. 

"I  have — every  last  one;  but  they  outnumber  us!" 
persisted  Bellini.  "Even  in  retreat  they  can  see.  The 
air  has  cleared  so  that  considerable  bodies  of  troops  in 
motion  will  be  readily  discernible  from  high  altitudes. 
The  reason  for  our  failure  last  night  was  that  they  knew 
our  plan  of  attack." 

"They  knew!  They  knew,  after  all  our  precautions! 
There  is  still  a  leak!  You— 

Westerling  raised  his  clenched  hand  threateningly  at 
the  chief  of  intelligence,  his  cheeks  purple  with  rage,  his 
eyes  bloodshot.  But  Bellini,  with  his  boyish,  small  face 
and  round  head  set  close  to  his  shoulders,  remained  un 
disturbedly  exact. 

"Yes,  there  is  a  leak,  and  from  the  staff,"  he  answered. 
"Until  I  have  found  it  this  army  ought  to  suspend  any 
aggressive — 

"I  was  not  asking  advice!"  interrupted  Westerling. 

"But,  I  repeat,  the  leak  is  not  necessary  to  disclose 
this  new  movement  that  you  plan.  Their  air  craft  will 
disclose  it,"  Bellini  concluded.  He  had  done  his  duty 
and  had  nothing  more  to  say. 

"Dirigibles  do  not  win  battles ! "  Westerling  announced. 
"They  are  won  by  getting  infantry  in  possession  of  po 
sitions  and  holding  them.  No  matter  if  we  don't  sur- 


434  THE  LAST  SHOT 

prise  the  enemy.  Haven't  the  Browns  held  their  line 
with  inferior  numbers?  If  they  have,  we  can  hold  the 
rest  of  ours.  That  gives  us  overwhelming  forces  at 
Engadir." 

"You  take  all  responsibility?"  asked  Turcas. 

"I  do!"  said  Westerling  firmly.  "And  we  will  waste 
no  more  time.  The  premier  supports  me.  I  have  de 
cided.  We  will  set  the  troops  in  motion." 

With  fierce  energy  he  set  to  work  detaching  units  of 
artillery  and  infantry  from  every  part  of  the  line  and 
starting  them  toward  Engadir. 

"This  means  an  improvised  organization;  it  breaks  up 
the  machine,"  said  the  tactical  expert  to  Turcas  when 
they  were  alone. 

"Yes,"  replied  Turcas.  "He  wanted  no  advice  from 
us  when  he  was  taking  counsel  of  desperation.  If  he 
succeeds,  success  will  retrieve  all  the  rest  of  his  errors. 
We  may  have  a  stroke  of  luck  in  our  favor." 

In  the  headquarters  of  the  Browns,  junior  officers  and 
clerks  reported  the  words  of  each  bulletin  with  the  relief 
of  men  who  breathed  freely  again.  The  chiefs  of  divisions 
who  were  with  Lanstron  alternately  sat  down  and  paced 
the  floor,  their  restlessness  now  that  of  a  happiness  too 
deeply  thrilling  to  be  expressed  by  hilarity.  Each  fresh 
detail  only  confirmed  the  completeness  of  the  repulse 
as  that  memorable  night  in  the  affairs  of  the  two  nations 
slowly  wore  on.  Shortly  before  three,  when  the  firing 
had  died  down  after  the  Brown  pursuit  had  stopped,  a 
wireless  from  a  dirigible  flying  over  the  frontier  came, 
telling  of  bodies  of  Gray  troops  and  guns  on  the  march. 
Soon  planes  and  other  dirigibles  flying  over  other  posi 
tions  were  sending  in  word  of  the  same  tenor.  The  chiefs 
drew  around  the  table  and  looked  into  one  another's 
eyes  in  the  significance  of  a  common  thought. 

"It  cannot  be  a  retreat!"  said  the  vice-chief. 

"Hardly.  That  is  inconceivable  of  Westerling  at 
this  time,"  Lanstron  replied.  "The  bull  charges  when 


JOVE'S  ISOLATION  435 

wounded.  It  is  clear  that  he  means  to  make  another 
attack.  These  troops  on  the  march  across  country  are 
isolated  from  any  immediate  service." 

It  was  Lanstron's  way  to  be  suggestive;  to  let  ideas 
develop  in  council  and  orders  follow  as  out  of  council. 

"The  chance!"  exclaimed  some  one. 

"The  chance!"  others  said  in  the  same  breath.  "The 
God-given  chance  for  a  quick  blow!  The  chance!  We 
attack!  We  attack!" 

It  was  the  most  natural  conception  to  a  military 
tactician,  though  any  man  who  made  it  his  own  might 
have  builded  a  reputation  on  it  if  he  knew  how  to  get 
the  ear  of  the  press.  Their  faces  were  close  to  Lanstron 
as  they  leaned  toward  him  eagerly.  He  seemed  not  to 
see  them  but  to  be  looking  at  Partow's  chair.  In  imagi 
nation  Partow  was  there  in  the  life — Partow  with  the 
dome  forehead,  the  pendulous  cheeks,  the  shrewd,  kindly 
eyes.  A  daring  risk,  this!  What  would  Partow  say? 
Lanstron  always  asked  himself  this  in  a  crisis:  What 
would  Partow  say? 

"Well,  my  boy,  why  are  you  hesitating?"  Partow  de 
manded.  "I  don't  know  that  I'd  have  taken  my  long 
holiday  and  left  you  in  charge  if  I'd  thought  you'd  be 
losing  your  nerve  as  you  are  this  minute.  Wasn't  it 
part  of  my  plan — my  dream — that  plan  I  gave  you  to 
read  in  the  vaults,  to  strike  if  a  chance,  this  very  chance, 
were  to  come?  Hurry  up!  Seconds  count!" 

"Yes,  a  chance  to  end  the  killing  for  good  and  all!" 
said  Lanstron,  coming  abruptly  out  of  his  silence. 
"We'll  take  it  and  strike  hard."' 

The  staff  bent  over  the  map,  Lanstron's  finger  flying 
from  point  to  point,  while  ready  expert  answers  to  his 
questions  were  at  his  elbow  and  the  wires  sang  out  di 
rections  that  made  a  drenched  and  shivering  soldiery 
who  had  been  yielding  and  holding  and  never  advancing 
grow  warm  with  the  thought  of  springing  from  the  mire 
of  trenches  to  charge  the  enemy.  And  one,  Gustave 
Feller,  in  command  of  a  brigade  of  field-guns — the  mobile 


436  THE  LAST  SHOT 

guns  that  could  go  forward  rumbling  to  the  horses'  trot 
—saw  his  dearly  beloved  batteries  swing  into  a  road  in 
the  moonlight. 

"La,  la,  la!  The  worm  will  turn !"  he  clucked.  "It's 
a  merry,  gambling  old  world  and  I'm  right  fond  of  it— 
so  full  of  the  unexpected  for  the  Grays !  That  lead  horse 
is  a  little  lame,  but  he'll  last  the  night  through.  Lots 
of  lame  things  will!  Who  knows?  Maybe  we'll  be 
cleaning  the  mud  off  our  boots  on  the  white  posts  of  the 
frontier  to-morrow!  A  whole  brigade  mine!  I  live! 
You  old  brick,  Lanny!  This  time  we  are  going  to  spank 
the  enemy  on  the  part  of  his  anatomy  where  spanks  are 
conventionally  given.  La,  la,  la!" 

If  not  his  own  pain,  the  moans,  the  gasps,  the  appeals 
for  water,  the  convulsive  shivers  from  cold,  and  the 
demoniacal  giggles  from  a  soldier  gone  insane  in  medley 
around  him  would  have  kept  the  judge's  son  awake. 
After  he  had  fallen,  struck  by  he  knew  not  what,  and 
consciousness  had  returned,  came  the  surging  charge  of 
the  Browns  in  the  counter-attack,  with  throaty  cries 
and  threshing  tread.  He  was  able  to  turn  over  on  his 
face  and  cover  the  back  of  his  head  with  his  hands,  as  a 
slight  protection  from  steps  that  found  footing  on  his 
body  instead  of  on  the  earth.  After  that  he  had  under 
stood  vaguely  that  a  newcomer  on  the  field  of  the  fallen 
needed  help  with  a  first  aid,  and  he  had  found  his  knife 
and  slit  a  sleeve  and  applied  a  bandage  to  check  the 
bleeding  of  an  artery.  Before  dawn  broke  the  sky  was 
all  alight  again  with  a  far-reaching  gun-fire — that  of  the 
Brown  advance — throwing  the  scene  of  slaughter  into 
spectral  relief,  which  became  more  real  and  terrible  in  the 
undramatic  light  of  day. 

Thick,  ghastly  thick,  the  dead  and  wounded;  and  the 
faces — faces  half  buried,  faces  black  with  congealed 
blood,  faces  staring  straight  up  at  the  sky,  faces  with 
eyes  popping  where  necks  had  been  twisted!  Near  by 
was  the  distorted  metal  work  of  a  dirigible,  with  the 


JOVE'S  ISOLATION  437 

bodies  of  its  crew  burned  beyond  recognition,  and  farther 
away  were  other  dirigible  wrecks.  A  wounded  Gray, 
who  had  not  the  strength  to  do  it  himself,  begged  some 
one  to  lift  a  corpse  off  his  body.  A  Gray  and  a  Brown 
were  locked  in  a  wrestling  embrace  in  which  a  shrapnel 
burst  had  surprised  them.  Piles  of  dead  and  wounded 
had  been  scattered  and  torn  by  a  shell  which  found  only 
dead  and  wounded  for  destruction  at  the  point  of  its 
explosion.  The  living  were  crawling  out  from  under  the 
shields  they  had  made  of  corpses  in  shell  craters,  and 
searching  for  water  in  the  canteens  and  biscuits  in  the 
haversacks  of  the  dead.  One  Gray  who  was  completely 
entombed  except  his  head  remarked  that  he  was  all 
right  if  some  one  would  dig  him  out.  At  his  side  showed 
the  legs  of  a  man  who  had  been  buried  face  downward. 
Ribs  of  the  wounded  broken  in;  features  of  the  dead 
mashed  by  the  heels  of  the  Brown  countercharge !  With 
every  turn  of  his  glance  his  surroundings  grew  more 
intimate  in  details  of  horror  to  the  judge's  son.  On  the 
earth,  saturated  with  rivulets  and  little  lakes  of  blood, 
gleamed  the  lead  shrapnel  bullets  and  the  brighter, 
nickelled  rifle-bullets  and  the  barrels  of  rifles  dropped 
from  the  hands  of  the  fallen. 

"I'd  have  bled  to  death  if  you  hadn't  put  on  that 
bandage.  You  saved  my  life!"  whispered  the  man  next 
to  the  judge's  son,  who  was  Tom  Fragini. 

"Did  I?  Did  I? "  exclaimed  the  judge's  son.  "Well, 
that's  something." 

"It  certainly  is  to  me,"  replied  Tom,  holding  out  his 
hand,  and  thus  they  shook  hands,  this  Gray  and  this 
Brown.  "Maybe  some  time,  when  the  war's  over,  I 
can  thank  you  in  more  than  words." 

"More  than  words!  Perhaps  you  can  do  that  now. 
You — you  haven't  a  cigarette,  old  fellow?"  asked  the 
judge's  son.  "I  haven't  smoked  for  three  days." 

"Yes,  only  I  roll  mine,"  said  Tom. 

"So  do  I  mine,"  said  the  judge's  son. 

"But  with  a  game  hand  I " 


438  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"Oh,  I've  the  hands.  It's  my  leg  that's  been  mashed 
up,"  said  the  judge's  son.  "Labor  and  capital!"  he 
added  cheerily  as  he  dropped  the  cosmopolitan  tobacco 
on  the  cosmopolitan  wafer  of  rice-paper. 

They  smoked  and  smiled  at  each  other  in  the  glow  of 
that  better  passion  when  wounds  have  let  out  the 
poison  of  conflict,  while  the  doctors  and  the  hospital- 
corps  men  began  their  attention  to  the  critical  cases 
and  on  down  the  slopes  the  mills  of  war  were  grinding 
out  more  dead  and  wounded. 

"At  the  hospital  where  I  was  interne  before  the  war 
we  were  trying  to  save  a  crippled  boy  the  use  of  his  leg," 
remarked  a  reserve  surgeon.  "Half  a  dozen  surgeons 
held  consultations  over  that  boy — yes,  just  for  one  leg. 
And  now  look  at  this!" 


XLIV 
TURNING  THE  TABLES 

"I  SHALL  take  a  little  nap.  There  will  be  plenty  to 
do  later,"  said  Westerling,  after  the  last  telegram  de 
taching  the  reserves  for  concentration  had  gone. 

Yes,  he  would  rest  while  the  troops  were  in  motion. 
The  staff  should  see  that  he  was  still  the  same  self-con 
tained  commander  whose  every  faculty  was  the  trained 
servant  of  his  will.  His  efforts  at  sleep  resulted  in  a 
numbing  brain  torture,  which  so  desensitized  it  to  out 
ward  impressions  that  his  faithful  personal  aide  enter 
ing  the  room  at  dawn  had  to  touch  him  on  the  shoulder 
to  arouse  attention. 

"  There's  nothing  like  being  able  to  order  yourself  to 
sleep,  whatever  the  crisis,"  he  said.  But  suddenly  he 
winced  as  if  a  blast  of  bullets  had  crashed  through  a 
window-pane  and  buried  themselves  in  the  wall  be 
side  his  bed.  " What  is  that?"  he  gasped.  "What?" 
With  appalling  distinctness  he  heard  a  cannonade  that 
seemed  as  wide-spread  as  the  horizon. 

"I  was  to  tell  you  that  the  enemy  has  been  attacking 
along  the  whole  front,"  the  aide  explained. 

"Attacking!  The  Browns  attacking!"  Westerling 
exclaimed  as  he  gathered  his  wits.  "Well,  so  much  the 
worse  for  them.  I  rather  expected  they  would,"  he 
added. 

Then  through  the  door  which  the  aide  had  left  open 
the  division  chiefs,  led  by  Turcas,  filed  in.  To  Wester 
ling  they  seemed  like  a  procession  of  ghosts.  The  fea 
tures  of  one  were  the  features  of  all,  graven  with  the 
weariness  of  the  machine's  treadmill.  Their  harness 

439 


440  THE  LAST  SHOT 

held  them  up.  A  moving  platform  under  their  feet  kept 
their  legs  moving.  They  grouped  around  the  great 
man's  desk  silently,  Turcas,  his  lips  a  half-opened  seam, 
his  voice  that  of  crinkling  parchment,  acting  as  spokes 
man. 

"The  enemy  seized  his  advantage,"  he  said,  "when  he 
found  that  our  reserves  were  on  the  march,  out  of  touch 
with  the  wire  to  headquarters." 

Westerling  forced  a  smile  which  he  wanted  to  be  a 
knowing  smile. 

"Exactly!  Of  course  their  guns  are  making  a  lot  of 
noise,"  he  said.  "It  seems  strange  to  you,  no  doubt, 
that  they  and  not  we  should  be  attacking.  Excellent! 
Let  them  have  a  turn  at  paying  the  costs  of  the  offen 
sive.  Let  them  thrash  their  battalions  to  pieces.  We 
want  them  exhausted  when  we  go  in  to-night." 

"However,  we  had  not  prepared  our  positions  for 
the  defensive,"  continued  that  very  literal  parchment 
voice.  "They  began  an  assault  on  our  left  flank  first 
and  we've  just  had  word  that  they  have  turned  it." 

"Probably  a  false  report.  Probably  they  have  taken 
an  outpost.  Order  a  counter-attack!"  exclaimed  Wes 
terling. 

"Nor  is  that  the  worst  of  it,"  said  the  vice-chief. 
"They  are  pressing  at  other  well-chosen  points.  They 
threaten  to  pierce  our  centre." 

"Our  centre!"  gibed  Westerling.  "You  do  need  rest. 
Our  centre,  where  we  have  the  column  of  last  night's 
attack  still  concentrated!  If  anything  would  convince 
me  that  I  have  to  fight  this  war  alone — I—  Wester 
ling  choked  in  irritation. 

"Yes.  The  ground  is  such  that  it  is  a  tactically  safe 
and  advantageous  move  for  Lanstron  to  make.  He 
strikes  at  the  vitals  of  our  machine." 

"But  what  about  the  remainder  of  the  force  that 
made  the  charge?  What  about  all  our  guns  concen 
trated  in  front  of  Engadir?" 

"I  was  coming  to  that.    The  rout  of  the  assaulting 


TURNING  THE  TABLES  441 

column  was  much  worse  than  we  had  supposed.  Those 
who  are  strong  enough  cannot  be  got  to  reform.  Many 
were  so  exhausted  that  they  dropped  in  their  tracks. 
Our  guns  are  at  this  moment  in  retreat — or  being  cap 
tured  by  the  rush  of  the  Browns'  infantry.  Your  Ex 
cellency,  the  crisis  is  sudden,  incredible." 

"Our  wire  service  has  broken  dowrf.  We  cannot 
communicate  with  many  of  our  division  commanders," 
put  in  Bellini,  the  chief  of  intelligence. 

"Yes,  our  organization,  so  dependent  on  communica 
tion,  is  in  danger  of  disruption,"  concluded  Turcas. 
"To  avoid  disorder,  we  think  it  best  to  retreat  across  the 
plain  to  our  own  range." 

At  the  word  "retreat"  Westerling  sprang  to  his  feet, 
his  cheeks  purple,  the  veins  of  his  neck  and  temples 
sculptured  as  he  took  a  threatening  step  toward  the 
group,  which  fell  back  before  the  physical  rage  of  the 
man,  all  except  the  vice-chief,  his  mouth  a  thin,  ashy 
line,  who  held  his  own. 

"You  cowards!"  Westerling  thundered.  "Retreat 
when  we  have  five  millions  to  their  three!" 

"We  have  not  that  odds  now,"  replied  the  parch 
ment  voice.  "All  their  men  are  engaged.  They  have 
caught  us  at  a  disadvantage,  unable  to  use  our  numbers 
except  in  detail  in  trying  to  hold  on  in  face  of — 

"I  tell  you  we  cannot  retreat! "  Westerling  interrupted. 
"That  is  the  end.  I  know  what  you  do  not  know.  I 
am  in  touch  with  the  government.  Yes,  I  know 

This  brought  fresh  alarm  into  faces  which  had  become 
set  in  grim  stoicism  by  many  alarms.  If  the  people 
were  in  ignorance  of  the  losses  and  the  army  in  ignorance 
of  the  nation's  feeling,  the  officers  of  the  staff  were  no 
less  in  ignorance  of  what  passed  over  the  long-distance 
wire  between  the  chief  of  staff  and  the  premier. 

"I  know  what  is  best — I  alone!"  Westerling  con 
tinued,  driving  home  his  point.  "Tell  our  commanders 
to  hold.  Neither  general  nor  man  is  to  budge.  They 
are  to  stick  to  the  death.  Any  one  who  does  not  I  shall 


442  THE  LAST  SHOT 

hold  up  to  public  shame  as  a  poltroon.  Who  knows 
but  Lanstron's  attack  may  be  a  council  of  desperation? 
The  Browns  may  be  worse  off  than  we  are.  Hold,  hold! 
If  we  are  tired,  they  are  tired.  Frequently  it  takes 
only  an  ounce  more  of  resolution  to  turn  the  tide  of 
battle.  Hold,  hold!  To-morrow  will  tell  a  different 
story!  We  are  going  to  win  yet!  Yes,  we  are  going  to 
win!" 

"It  is  for  you  to  decide,  Your  Excellency,"  said 
Turcas,  slowly  and  precisely.  "You  take  the  responsi 
bility." 

"I  take  the  responsibility.  I  am  in  command!"  re 
plied  Westerling  in  unflinching  pose. 

"Yes,  Your  Excellency." 

And  they  filed  out  of  the  room,  leaving  him  to  his 
isolation. 

A  little  later,  when  Francois  came  in  unannounced, 
bringing  coffee,  he  found  his  master  with  face  buried  in 
hands.  Westerling  was  on  the  point  of  striking  the  valet 
in  anger  at  the  discovery,  but  instead  attempted  a  yawn 
to  deceive  him. 

"I  fell  asleep;  there's  so  little  to  worry  about,  Fran- 
£ois,"  he  explained. 

"Yes,  Your  Excellency.  There  is  no  need  of  worry 
ing  as  long  as  you  are  in  command,"  said  Francois;  and 
Westerling  gulped  at  the  coffee  and  chewed  at  a  piece  of 
roll,  which  was  so  dry  in  his  mouth  and  so  hard  to 
swallow  that  he  gave  up  the  attempt. 

After  Marta  had  learned,  over  the  telephone,  from 
Lanstron  of  the  certain  repulse  of  the  Gray  assault, 
fatigue — sheer  physical  fatigue  such  as  made  soldiers 
drop  dead  in  slumber  on  the  earth,  their  packs  still  on 
their  backs — overcame  her.  Her  work  was  done.  The 
demands  of  nature  overwhelmed  her  faculties.  She 
slept  with  a  nervous  twitching  of  her  muscles,  a  restless 
tossing  of  her  lithe  body,  until  hammers  began  beating 
on  her  temples,  beating,  beating  with  the  sound  of  shell 


TURNING  THE  TABLES  443 

bursts,  as  if  to  warn  her  that  punishment  for  her  share 
in  the  killing  was  to  be  the  eternal  concussion  of  battle 
in  her  ears.  At  length  she  realized  that  the  cannonading 
was  real. 

Hastening  out-of-doors,  as  her  glance  swept  toward  the 
range  she  saw  bursts  of  shrapnel  smoke  from  the  guns 
of  the  Browns  nearer  than  since  the  righting  had  begun 
on  the  main  line,  and  these  were  directed  at  bodies  of 
infantry  that  were  in  confused  retreat  down  the  slopes, 
while  all  traffic  on  the  pass  road  was  moving  toward  the 
rear.  Impelled  by  a  new  apprehension  she  hurried  to 
the  tunnel.  Lanstron  answered  her  promptly  in  a  voice 
that  had  a  ring  of  relief  and  joy  in  place  of  the  tension 
that  had  characterized  it  since  the  outbreak  of  the  war. 

"Thanks  to  you,  Marta!"  he  cried.  "Everything 
goes  back  to  you — thanks  to  you  came  this  chance  to 
attack,  and  we  are  succeeding  at  every  point!  You  are 
the  general,  you  the  maker  of  victories!" 

"Yes,  the  general  of  still  more  killing!"  she  cried  in 
indignation.  ' l  Why  have  you  gone  on  with  the  slaughter? 
I  did  not  help  you  for  this.  Why?" 

No  reply  came.  She  poured  out  more  questions,  and 
still  no  reply.  She  pressed  the  button  and  tried  again, 
but  she  might  as  well  have  been  talking  over  a  dead  wire. 

Though  the  morning  was  chill,  Mrs.  Galland,  in  a  heavy 
coat,  was  seated  outside  the  tower  door,  beatincally  calm 
and  smiling;  for  she  would  miss  rejoicing  over  no  detail 
of  the  spectacle.  The  battle's  sounds  were  sweet  music — 
a  symphony  of  retribution.  Oh,  if  her  husband  and  her 
father  could  only  be  with  her  to  see  the  ancient  enemy 
in  flight!  Her  cheeks  were  rosy  with  the  happy  thrum 
ming  of  her  heart;  a  delirious  beat  was  in  her  temples. 
She  wanted  to  sing  and  cheer  and  give  thanks  to  the 
Almighty.  The  advancing  bursts  of  billowy  shrapnel 
down  the  slopes  were  a  heavenly  nimbus  to  her  eyes. 
She  breathed  a  silent  blessing  on  a  manoeuvring  Brown 
dirigible.  They  were  coming!  The  soldiers  of  her  people 


444  THE  LAST  SHOT 

were  coming  to  take  back  their  own  from  the  robber 
hosts  and  restore  her  hearth  to  her.  Soon  she  would 
be  seated  on  the  veranda  watching  the  folds  of  her  flag 
floating  over  La  Tir. 

"Isn't  it  wonderful?  Isn't  it  like  some  good  story?" 
she  said  to  Marta.  "Yes,  like  a  miracle — and  there 
has  been  a  Galland  in  every  war  of  the  Browns  and  you 
were  in  this!" 

Having  no  son,  she  had  given  her  daughter  in  sacri 
fice  on  the  altar  of  her  country's  gods,  who  had  answered 
with  victory.  Her  old-fashioned  patriotism,  true  to  the 
"  all-is-f air-in- war "  precept,  delighted  in  the  hour  of 
success  in  every  trick  of  Marta's  double-dealing,  though 
in  private  life  she  could  have  been  guilty  of  no  deceit. 

"Marta,  Marta,  I  shall  never  tease  you  again  about 
your  advanced  ideas  or  about  journeying  all  the  way 
around  the  world  without  a  chaperon.  Your  father 
and  my  father  would  have  approved!"  She  squeezed 
Marta's  hands  and  pressed  them  to  her  cheek.  Marta 
smiled  absently. 

"Yes,  mother,"  she  said,  but  in  such  a  fashion  that 
Mrs.  Galland  was  reminded  again  that  Marta  had  always 
been  peculiar.  Probably  it  was  because  she  was  pe 
culiar  that  she  had  been  able  to  outwit  the  head  of  an 
army. 

"Oh,  that  mighty  Westerling  who  was  going  to  con 
quer  the  whole  world!  How  does  he  feel  now?"  mused 
Mrs.  Galland.  "Westerling  and  his  boasted  power  of 
five  against  three!" 

For  the  Grays  were  barbarians  to  her  and  the  Browns 
a  people  of  a  superior  civilization,  a  superior  aristocracy, 
a  superior  professional  and  farming  and  laboring  class. 
There  was  nothing  about  the  Browns  to  Mrs.  Galland 
that  was  not  superior.  War,  that  ancient  popular  test 
of  superiority  in  art,  civilization,  morals,  scholarship, 
the  grace  of  woman  and  the  manliness  of  man,  had  proved 
her  point  in  the  high  court,  permitting  of  no  appeal. 


TURNING  THE  TABLES  445 

One  man  alone  against  the  tide — rather,  the  man  who 
has  seen  a  tide  rise  at  his  orders  now  rinding  all  its 
sweep  against  him — Westerling,  accustomed  to  have 
millions  of  men  move  at  his  command,  found  himself, 
one  man  out  of  the  millions,  still  and  helpless  while  they 
moved  of  their  own  impulses. 

As  news  of  positions  lost  came  in,  he  could  only  grimly 
repeat,  "Hold!  Tell  them  to  hold!"  fruitlessly,  like  ad 
jurations  to  the  wind  to  cease  blowing.  The  bell  of 
the  long  distance  kept  ringing  unheeded,  until  at  last 
his  aide  came  to  say  that  the  premier  must  speak  either 
to  him  or  to  the  vice-chief.  Westerling  staggered  to  his 
feet  and  with  lurching  steps  went  into  the  closet.  There 
he  sank  down  on  the  chair  in  a  heap,  staring  at  the  tele 
phone  mouthpiece.  Again  the  bell  rang.  Clenching 
his  hands  in  a  rocking  effort,  he  was  able  to  stiffen  his 
spine  once  more  as  he  took  down  the  receiver.  To  admit 
defeat  to  the  premier — no,  he  was  not  ready  for  that  yet. 

"The  truth  is  out!"  said  the  premier  without  any 
break  in  his  voice  and  with  the  fatalism  of  one  who  never 
allows  himself  to  blink  a  fact.  "Telegraphers  at  the 
front  who  got  out  of  touch  with  the  staff  were  still  in 
touch  with  the  capital.  Once  the  reports  began  to  come, 
they  poured  in — decimation  of  the  attacking  column, 
panic  and  retreat  in  other  portions  of  the  line — chaos!" 

"It's  a  lie!"  Westerling  declared  vehemently. 

"The  news  has  reached  the  press,"  the  premier  pro 
ceeded.  "Editions  are  already  in  the  streets." 

"What!  Where  is  your  censorship?"  gasped  Wester 
ling. 

"It  is  helpless,  a  straw  protesting  against  a  current," 
the  premier  replied.  "A  censorship  goes  back  to  physical 
force,  as  every  law  does  in  the  end — to  the  police  and 
the  army;  and  all,  these  days,  finally  to  public  opinion. 
After  weeks  of  secrecy,  of  reported  successes,  when 
nobody  really  knew  what  was  happening,  this  sudden 
disillusioning  announcement  of  the  truth  has  sent  the 
public  mad." 


446  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"It  is  your  business  to  control  the  public!"  complained 
Westerling. 

"With  what,  now?  With  a  speech  or  a  lullaby?  As 
well  could  you  stop  the  retreat  with  your  naked  hands. 
My  business  to  control  the  public,  yes,  but  not  unless 
you  win  victories.  I  gave  you  the  soldiers.  We  have 
nothing  but  police  here,  and  I  tell  you  that  the  public  is 
in  a  mob  rage — the  whole  public,  bankers  and  business 
and  professional  men  included.  I  have  just  ordered  the 
stock  exchange  and  all  banks  closed." 

"There's  a  cure  for  mobs!"  cried  Westerling.  "Let 
the  police  fire  a  few  volleys  and  they'll  behave." 

"Would  that  stop  the  retreat  of  the  army?  We  must 
sue  for  peace." 

"Sue  for  peace!  Sue  for  peace  when  we  have  five 
millions  against  their  three!" 

"It  seems  so,  as  the  three  millions  are  winning!"  said 
the  premier. 

"  Sue  for  peace  because  women  go  hysterical?  Do  you 
suppose  that  the  Browns  will  listen  now  when  they 
think  they  have  the  advantage?  Leave  peace  to  me! 
Give  me  forty-eight  hours  more!  I  have  told  our  troops 
to  hold  and  they  will  hold.  I  don't  mistake  cowardly 
telegraphers'  rumors  for  facts " 

"Pardon  me  a  moment,"  the  premier  interrupted. 
"I  must  answer  a  local  call."  So  astute  a  man  of  affairs 
as  he  knew  that  Westerling's  voice,  storming,  breaking, 
tightening  with  effort  at  control,  confirmed  all  reports 
of  disaster.  "In  fact,  the  crockery  is  broken — for  you 
and  for  me!"  said  the  premier  when  he  spoke  again. 
His  life  had  been  a  gamble  and  the  gamble  had  turned 
against  him  in  playing  for  a  great  prize.  There  was  an 
admirable  stoicism  in  the  way  he  announced  the  news 
he  had  received  from  the  local  call:  "The  chief  of  police 
calls  me  up  to  say  that  the  uprising  is  too  vast  for  him 
to  hold.  There  isn't  any  mutiny,  but  his  men  simply 
have  become  a  part  of  public  opinion.  A  mob  of  women 
and  children  is  starting  for  the  palace  to  ask  me  what  I 


TURNING  THE  TABLES  447 

have  done  with  their  husbands,  brothers,  sons,  and 
fathers.  They  won't  have  to  break  in  to  find  me.  I'm 
very  tired.  I'm  ready.  I  shall  face  them  from  the  bal 
cony.  Yes,  Westerling,  you  and  I  have  achieved  a 
place  in  history,  and  they're  far  more  bitter  toward  you 
than  me.  However,  you  don't  have  to  come  back." 

"No,  I  don't  have  to  go  back!  No,  I  was  not  to  go 
back  if  I  failed!"  said  Westerling  dizzily. 

Again  defiance  rose  strong  as  the  one  tangible  thought, 
born  of  his  ruling  passion.  It  was  inconceivable  that  so 
vast  an  ambition  should  fail.  Failure!  He  defied  it! 
He  burst  into  the  main  staff  room,  where  the  tired  of 
ficers  regarded  him  with  a  glare,  or  momentary,  weary 
wonder,  and  continued  packing  up  their  papers  for  de 
parture.  He  went  on  into  the  telegraphers'  room.  Some 
of  the  operators  were  packing  their  instruments. 

"The  news?  What  is  the  news?"  Westerling  asked 
hoarsely. 

An  operator  who  was  still  at  the  key,  without  even 
half  rising  let  alone  saluting,  glanced  up  from  the  cavern 
ous  sockets  of  eyes  unawed  by  the  chief  of  staff's  presence. 

"All  that  comes  in  is  bad,"  he  said.  "Where  we  get 
none  because  the  wires  are  down  we  know  it's  worse. 
We've  been  licked." 

He  went  on  sending  a  message,  wholly  oblivious  of 
Westerling,  who  stumbled  back  into  the  staff  room  and 
paused  inarticulate  before  Turcas. 

"The  army  is  going — resisting  by  units,  but  going. 
It  has  made  its  own  orders!"  Turcas  said.  The  other 
division  chiefs  nodded  in  agreement.  "Your  Excel 
lency,  we  are  doing  our  best,"  added  the  vice-chief, 
holding  the  door  for  Westerling  to  return  to  his  own 
office.  "The  nation  is  not  beaten.  Given  breathing 
time  for  reorganization,  the  army  will  settle  down  to 
the  defensive  on  our  own  range.  There  the  enemy  may 
try  our  costly  tactics  against  the  precision  and  power  of 
modern  arms,  if  they  choose.  No,  the  nation  is  not 
beaten." 


448  THE  LAST  SHOT 

The  nation!  Westerling  was  not  thinking  of  the 
nation. 

"You —  "  he  began,  looking  around  from  face  to  face. 

Not  one  showed  any  sign  of  softening  or  deference, 
and,  his  mind  a  blank,  he  withdrew,  driven  back  to  his 
isolation  by  an  inflexible  ostracism.  The  world  had 
come  to  an  end.  Public  opinion  was  master — master 
of  his  own  staff.  He  sank  down  before  his  desk,  star 
ing,  just  staring;  hearing  the  roar  of  battle  which  was 
drawing  nearer;  staring  at  the  staff  orderlies,  who  came 
in  to  take  down  the  wall  maps,  and  at  his  aide  packing 
up  the  papers  and  leaving  him  in  a  room  bare  of  all  the 
appurtenances  of  his  position,  with  little  idea  in  his 
coma  of  despair  of  the  hour  or  even  that  time  was 
passing.  Finally,  some  one  touched  him  on  the  shoul 
der.  He  looked  up  to  see  his  aide  at  his  elbow  saluting 
and  Francois,  his  valet,  standing  by  with  an  over 
coat. 

"We  must  go,  Your  Excellency,"  said  the  aide. 

"Go?"  asked  Westerling  dazedly. 

"Yes,  the  staff  has  already  gone  to  a  new  head 
quarters." 

The  announcement  was  the  needle  prick  that  once 
more  aroused  him  to  a  sense  of  his  situation.  He  rose 
and  struck  his  fist  on  the  desk  in  a  pulsing  outbreak  of 
energy  and  stubbornness. 

"But  I  stay!  I  stay!"  he  cried.  "The  enemy  is  not 
near.  He  can't  be!" 

"Very  near,  general.  You  can  see  for  yourself,  said 
the  aide. 

"I  will!"  Westerling  replied.  "I  will  see  how  the 
conspiracy  of  the  staff  has  made  ruin  of  my  plans!" 

Again  something  of  his  old  manner  returned;  some 
thing  of  the  stoic's  fatalism  flashed  in  his  eye.  He 
shook  his  head  to  Francois,  refusing  to  slip  his  arms  into 
the  sleeves  of  the  coat  which  Francois  dropped  on  to 
his  shoulders. 

"Yes,  I  will  see  for  myself!"  he  repeated,  as  he  led  the 


TURNING  THE  TABLES  449 

way  out  to  the  veranda.     "I'll  see  what  goblin  scared 
my  pusillanimous  staff  and  robbed  me  of  victory!" 

Every  cry  of  triumph  in  war  is  paid  for  by  a  cry  of 
pain.  On  one  side,  anguish  of  heart;  on  the  other,  in 
expressible  ecstasy.  The  Gray  staff  were  oblivious  of 
fatigue  in  the  glum,  overpowering  necessity  of  restoring 
the  organization  of  the  Gray  army  for  a  second  stand. 
The  Brown  staff  were  oblivious  of  fatigue  in  the  exhila 
ration  of  victory. 

Had  a  picture  of  the  sight  which  the  judge's  son  had 
witnessed  at  dawn  in  the  path  of  the  attack  and  the 
counter-attack  been  thrown  on  the  wall  of  the  big  lobby 
room  of  the  Brown  headquarters,  there  might  have 
been  less  exultation  on  the  part  of  the  junior  officers  of 
the  staff  gathered  there.  They  were  not  seeing  or  think 
ing  of  the  dead.  They  were  seeing  only  brown-headed 
pins  pushing  gray-headed  pins  out  of  the  way  on  the 
map,  as  the  symbol  of  an  attack  become  a  pursuit  and  of 
better  than  their  dreams  come  true — the  symbol  of  se 
curity  for  altar  fires  and  race  and  nation.  They  were 
of  the  living,  in  the  mightiest  thrill  that  a  soldier  may 
know. 

No  doubt  now!  No  more  suspense!  Labor  and  sac 
rifice  rewarded!  Fervent  thanks  to  the  Almighty  were 
mingled  with  whistled  snatches  of  wedding  marches  and 
popular  songs.  An  aide  taking  a  message  to  the  wire 
preferred  leaping  over  a  chair  to  going  around  it.  A 
subaltern  and  a  colonel  danced  together.  Victory, 
victory,  victory  out  of  the  burr  of  automatics,  the 
pounding  of  artillery,  the  popping  roar  of  rifles!  Vic 
tory  out  of  the  mire  of  trenches  after  brain-aching  strain! 
Victory  for  you  and  for  me  and  for  sweethearts  and 
wives  and  children!  Aren't  we  all  Browns,  orderly  and 
captain,  boyish  lieutenant  and  gray-haired  general?  A 
taciturn  martinet  of  a  major  hugged  a  telegrapher  to 
whom  he  had  never  spoken  a  single  unofficial  word. 
Hadn't  the  telegraphers,  those  silent  men  who  were  the 


450  THE  LAST  SHOT 

tongue  of  the  army,  received  the  good  news  and  passed 
it  on?  Some  officers  who  could  be  spared  from  duty 
went  to  their  quarters,  where  they  dropped  like  falling 
logs  on  their  beds.  To  them,  after  their  spell  of  rejoic 
ing,  victory  meant  sleep  for  the  first  time  in  weeks  with 
out  forked  lightnings  of  apprehension  stabbing  their  sub- 
consciousness. 

Fellowship  was  in  the  victory,  the  fellowship  which, 
developed  under  Partow,  who  believed  that  Napoleons 
and  Colossi  and  gods  in  the  car  and  all  such  gentlemen 
belonged  to  an  archaic  farce-comedy,  had  grown  under 
Lanstron.  "  The  staff  reports,"  began  the  messages  that 
awakened  a  world,  retiring  with  the  idea  that  the  Browns 
were  grimly  holding  the  defensive,  to  the  news  that  three 
millions  had  outgeneralled  and  defeated  five. 

In  the  inner  room,  whose  opening  door  gave  glimpses 
of  Lanstron  and  the  division  chiefs,  a  magic  of  secret 
council  which  the  juniors  could  not  quite  understand 
had  wrought  the  wonder.  Lanstron  had  not  forgotten 
the  dead.  He  could  see  them;  he  could  see  everything 
that  happened.  Had  not  Partow  said  to  him:  "Don't 
just  read  reports.  Visualize  men  and  events.  Be  the 
artillery,  be  the  infantry,  be  the  wounded — live  and 
think  in  their  places.  In  this  way  only  can  you  really 
know  your  work!" 

His  elation  when  he  saw  his  plans  going  right  was  that 
of  the  instrument  of  Partow's  training  and  Marta's 
service.  He  pressed  the  hands  of  the  men  around  him; 
his  voice  caught  in  his  gratitude  and  his  breaths  were 
very  short  at  times,  like  those  of  a  spent,  happy  runner 
at  the  goal.  Feeding  on  victory  and  growing  greedy  of 
more,  his  division  chiefs  were  discussing  how  to  press 
the  war  till  the  Grays  sued  for  peace;  and  he  was  silent 
in  the  midst  of  their  talk,  which  was  interrupted  by  the 
ringing  of  the  tunnel  telephone.  When  he  came  out  of 
his  bedroom,  Lanstron's  distress  was  so  evident  that 
those  who  were  seated  arose  and  the  others  drew  near 
in  inquiry  and  sympathy.  It  seemed  to  them  that  the 


TURNING  THE  TABLES  451 

chief  of  staff,  the  head  of  the  machine,  who  had  left  the 
room  had  returned  an  individual. 

"The  connection  was  broken  while  we  were  speak 
ing!"  he  said  blankly.  "That  means  it  must  have 
been  cut  by  the  enemy — that  the  enemy  knows  of  its 
existence!" 

"Perhaps  not.  Perhaps  an  accident — a  chance  shot," 
said  the  vice-chief. 

"No,  I'm  sure  not,"  Lanstron  replied.  "I  am  sure 
that  it  was  cut  deliberately  and  not  by  her." 

"The  53d  Regiment  is  going  forward  in  that  direc 
tion — the  same  regiment  that  defended  the  house — 
and  it  can't  go  any  faster  than  it  is  going,"  the  vice-chief 
continued,  rather  incoherently.  He  and  the  others  no 
less  felt  the  news  as  a  personal  blow.  Though  absent  in 
person,  Marta  had  become  in  spirit  an  intimate  of  their 
hopes  and  councils. 

"She  is  helpless — in  their  power!"  Lanstron  said. 
"There  is  no  telling  what  they  might  do  to  her  in  the 
rage  of  their  discovery.  I  must  go  to  her !  I  am  going 
to  the  front!" 

The  announcement  started  a  storm  of  protest. 

"But  you  are  the  chief  of  staff!  You  cannot  leave  the 
staff!" 

"You've  no  right  to  expose  yourself!" 

"A  chance  shell  or  bullet— 

"You  do  not  seem  to  realize  what  this  victory  means 
to  you.  You  might  be  killed  at  the  very  moment  of 
triumph." 

"I  haven't  had  any  triumph.  But  if  I  had,  could 
there  be  a  better  time?"  Lanstron  asked  with  a  half- 
bantering  smile. 

"You  couldn't  reach  there  before  the  53d  Regiment 
anyway!"  declared  the  vice-chief,  having  in  mind  the 
fact  that  the  staff  was  fifteen  miles  to  the  rear,  where  it 
could  be  at  the  wire  focus.  "You  will  find  the  roads 
blocked  with  the  advance.  You'll  have  to  ride,  you 
can't  go  all  the  way  in  a  car." 


452  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"Terrible  hardship!"  replied  Lanstron.  "Still,  I'm 
going.  Things  are  well  in  hand.  I  can  keep  in  touch  by 
the  wire  as  I  proceed.  If  I  get  out  of  touch  then  you," 
with  a  nod  to  the  vice-chief,  "know  as  well  as  I  how  to 
meet  any  sudden  emergency.  Yes,  you  all  know  how 
to  act — we're  so  used  to  working  together.  The  staff 
will  follow  as  soon  as  the  Galland  house  is  taken.  We 
shall  make  our  headquarters  there.  I'm  free  now.  I 
can  be  my  own  man  for  a  little  while — I  can  be  hu 
man!" 

A  certain  awe  of  him  and  of  his  position,  born  of  the 
prestige  of  victory,  hushed  further  protest.  Who  if 
not  he  had  the  right  to  go  where  he  pleased  in  the  Brown 
lines  now?  They  noted  the  eagerness  in  his  eyes,  the 
eagerness  of  one  off  the  leash,  shot  with  a  suspense 
which  was  not  for  the  fate  of  the  army,  as  he  left  head 
quarters. 

A  young  officer  of  the  Grays  who  was  with  a  signal- 
corps  section,  trying  to  keep  a  brigade  headquarters  in 
touch  with  the  staff  during  the  retreat,  two  or  three 
miles  from  the  Galland  house,  had  seen  what  looked 
like  an  insulated  telephone  wire  at  the  bottom  of  a  crater 
in  the  earth  made  by  the  explosion  of  a  heavy  shell. 
The  instructions  to  all  subordinates  from  the  chief  of 
intelligence  to  look  for  the  source  of  the  leak  in  infor 
mation  to  the  Browns  made  him  quick  to  see  a  clew  in 
anything  unusual.  He  jumped  down  into  the  crater 
and  not  only  found  his  pains  rewarded,  but  that  the 
wire  was  intact  and  ran  underground  in  either  direction. 
Who  had  laid  it?  Not  the  Grays.  Why  was  it  there? 
He  called  for  one  of  his  men  to  bring  a  buzzer,  and  it 
was  the  work  of  little  more  than  a  minute  to  cut  the 
wire  and  make  an  attachment.  Then  he  heard  a  woman's 
voice  talking  to  ' '  Lanny . ' '  Who  was  Lanny ?  He  waited 
till  he  had  heard  enough  to  know  that  it  was  none  other 
than  Lanstron,  the  chief  of  staff  of  the  Browns,  and 
the  woman  must  be  a  spy.  An  orderly  despatched  to 


TURNING  THE  TABLES  453 

the  chief  of  intelligence  with  the  news  returned  with  the 
order: 

"Drop  everything  and  report  to  me  in  person  at  once." 

"For  this  I  have  made  my  sacrifice!"  Marta  thought. 
"The  killing  goes  on  by  Lanny's  orders,  not  by  Wester- 
ling's,  this  time." 

Leaving  her  mother  to  enjoy  the  prospect,  a  slow- 
moving  figure,  trance-like,  she  went  along  the  first  ter 
race  path  to  a  point  near  the  veranda  where  the  whole 
sweep  of  landscape  with  its  panorama  of  retreat  mag 
netized  her  senses.  Like  the  gray  of  lava,  the  Gray 
soldiery  was  erupting  from  the  range;  in  columns,  still 
under  the  control  of  officers,  keeping  to  the  defiles;  in 
swarms  and  batches,  under  the  control  of  nothing  but 
their  own  emotions.  Mostly  they  were  hugging  cover, 
from  instinct  if  not  from  direction,  but  some  relied  on 
straight  lines  of  flight  and  speed  of  foot  for  escape. 
Coursing  aeroplanes  were  playing  a  new  part.  Their 
wireless  was  informing  the  Brown  gunners  where  the 
masses  were  thickest.  This  way  and  that  the  Brown 
artillery  fire  drove  retreating  bodies,  prodding  them  in 
the  back  with  the  fearful  shepherdry  of  their  shells. 
Officers'  swords  flashed  in  the  faces  of  the  bolters  or  in 
holding  rear-guards  to  their  work.  Officers  and  order 
lies  were  galloping  hither  and  thither  with  messages,  in 
want  of  wires.  Commanders  had  been  told  to  hold, 
but  how  and  where  to  hold?  They  saw  neighboring 
regiments  and  brigades  going  and  they  had  to  go.  The 
machine,  the  complicated  modern  war  machine,  was 
broken;  the  machine,  with  its  nerves  of  intelligence  cut, 
became  a  thing  of  disconnected  parts,  each  part  working 
out  its  own  salvation.  Authority  ceased  to  be  that  of 
the  bureau  and  army  lists.  It  was  that  of  units  racked 
by  hardship,  acting  on  the  hour's  demand. 

Gorged  was  the  pass  road,  overflowing  with  the  strug 
gling  tumult  of  men  and  vehicles.  Self-preservation 
breaking  the  bonds  of  discipline  was  in  the  ascendant, 


454  THE  LAST  SHOT 

and  it  sought  the  highway,  even  as  water  keeps  to  the 
river  bed.  Like  specks  on  the  laboring  tide  was  the 
white  of  bandages.  An  ambulance  trying  to  cut  out  to 
one  side  was  overturned.  The  frantic  chauffeur  and 
hospital-corps  orderly  were  working  to  extricate  the 
wounded  from  their  painful  position.  A  gun  was  over 
turned  against  the  ambulance.  A  melee  of  horses  and 
men  was  forming  at  the  foot  of  the  garden  gate  in  front 
of  the  narrowing  bounds  of  the  road  into  the  town,  as 
a  stream  banks  up  before  a  jam  of  driftwood.  The  strug 
gle  for  right  of  way  became  increasingly  wild;  the  dam 
of  men,  horses,  and  wagons  grew.  A  Brown  dirigible 
was  descending  toward  the  great  target;  but  on  closer 
view  its  commander  forbore,  the  humane  impulse  out 
weighing  the  desire  for  retribution  for  colleagues  in 
camp  and  mess  who  had  gone  down  in  a  holocaust  in 
the  aerial  battles  of  the  night. 

Thus  far  the  flight  had  seemed  in  the  face  of  an 
unseen  pursuer,  like  that  of  an  army  fleeing  from  some 
power  visible  to  itself  but  not  to  Marta.  Now  she 
began  to  observe  the  flashes  of  rifles  from  the  crests 
that  the  rear-guards  of  the  Grays  were  deserting;  then 
the  rush  of  the  Brown  skirmish  line  to  close  quarters. 
Her  glance  pausing  long  on  no  detail,  so  active  the  land 
scape  with  its  swarms  and  tumult,  returned  to  the  scene 
in  front  of  the  house.  A  Gray  field-battery,  cutting  out 
to  one  side  of  the  road,  knocking  over  flimsier  vehicles 
and  wounded  who  got  in  the  way,  careening,  its  drivers 
cursing  and  officers  shouting,  galloped  out  in  the  open 
field  and  unlimbered  to  support  a  regiment  of  infantry 
that  was  hastily  intrenching  as  a  point  to  steady  the 
retreating  masses  on  its  front  and  protect  them  in  their 
flight  when  they  had  passed. 

Marta  saw  how  desperately  the  gunners  worked;  she 
could  feel  their  fatigue.  Nature  had  sunk  in  her  heart  a 
partisanship  for  the  under  dog.  She  who  had  stood  for 
the  three  against  five,  now  stood  for  the  shaken,  be 
wildered  five  in  the  cockpit  under  the  fire  of  the  three. 


TURNING  THE  TABLES  4.55 

Her  sympathies  went  out  to  every  beaten,  weary  Gray 
soldier.  What  was  the  difference  between  a  Gray  and  a 
Brown?  Weren't  they  both  made  of  flesh  and  bone  and 
blood  and  nerves? 

Under  the  awful  spell  of  the  panorama,  she  did  not 
see  Westerling,  who  had  stopped  only  a  few  feet  distant 
with  his  aide  and  his  valet,  nor  did  he  notice  her  as  the 
tumult  glazed  his  eyes.  He  was  as  an  artist  who  looks 
on  the  ribbons  of  the  canvas  of  his  painting,  or  the 
sculptor  on  the  fragments  of  his  statue.  Worse  still, 
with  no  faith  to  give  him  fortitude  except  the  material 
istic,  he  saw  the  altar  of  his  god  of  military  efficiency  in 
ruins.  He  who  had  not  allowed  the  word  retreat  to 
enter  his  lexicon  now  saw  a  rout.  He  had  laughed  at 
reserve  armies  in  last  night's  feverish  defiance,  at  Tur- 
cas's  advocacy  of  a  slower  and  surer  method  of  attack. 
In  those  hours  of  smiting  at  a  wall  with  his  fists  and 
forehead,  in  denial  of  all  the  truth  so  clear  to  average 
military  logic,  if  he  had  only  given  a  few  conventional 
directions  all  this  disorder  would  have  been  avoided. 
His  army  could  have  fallen  back  in  orderly  fashion  to 
their  own  range.  The  machine  out  of  order,  he  had  at 
tempted  no  repair;  he  had  allowed  it  to  thrash  itself  to 
pieces. 

The  splinters  of  its  debris — steel  splinters — were  lac 
erating  his  brain.  He  had  a  sense  that  madness  was 
coming  and  some  instinct  of  self-preservation  made  the 
whole  scene  grow  misty,  as  he  tried  to  resolve  it  out  of 
existence  in  the  desire  for  some  one  object  which  was  not 
his  guns  and  his  men  in  demoralization.  A  bit  of  pink 
caught  his  eye — the  pink  of  a  dress,  a  little  girl's  dress, 
down  there  at  the  edge  of  the  garden  by  the  road,  at  the 
same  moment  that  some  guns  of  the  Browns,  in  a  new 
position,  opened  on  an  inviting  target.  Over  her  head 
was  a  crack  and  a  blue  tongue  of  smoke  whipped  out 
of  no  tiling;  while  a  shower  of  shrapnel  bullets  made 
spurts  of  dust  around  her.  She  started  to  run  toward 
the  terrace  steps  and  another  burst  made  her  run  in  the 


456  THE  LAST  SHOT 

opposite  direction,  while  she  looked  about  in  a  paralysis 
of  fear  and  then  threw  herself  on  her  face. 

11  My  God!  That  little  girl— there— there !"  Wester- 
ling  exclaimed  distractedly. 

"Clarissa!  Clarissa!"  cried  Marta,  seeing  the  child 
for  the  first  time. 

She  started  precipitately  to  the  rescue,  but  a  hand  on 
her  arm  arrested  her  and  she  turned  to  see  Hugo  Mallin 
bound  past  her  down  the  slope.  Still  remaining  on  the 
premises  under  guard  while  Westerling  had  neglected 
to  dispose  of  the  case,  he  had  the  run  of  the  grounds  that 
morning  while  the  staff  was  feverishly  preparing  for  de 
parture. 

Marta  watched  him  leaping  from  terrace  to  terrace. 
Before  he  had  reached  Clarissa  worse  than  shrapnel 
bursts  happened.  The  spatter  of  the  fragments  and 
bullets  falling  on  either  side  of  the  road  whipped  the 
edges  of  the  struggling  human  jam  inward.  In  the 
midst  of  this  a  percussion  shell  struck,  bursting  on  con 
tact  with  the  road  and  spreading  its  own  grist  of  death 
and  the  stones  of  the  road  in  a  fan-shaped,  mowing 
swath.  Legs  and  bodies  were  thrown  out  as  if  driven 
centrifugally  by  a  powerful  breath,  with  Hugo  lost  in 
the  smoke  and  dust  of  the  weaving  mass.  He  came 
out  of  it  bearing  Clarissa  in  his  arms,  up  the  terrace  steps. 
To  Marta,  this  was  an  isolated  deed  of  saving  life,  of 
mercy  in  the  midst  of  merciless  slaughter;  a  parallel  to 
that  of  Stransky  bringing  in  Grandfather  Fragini  pick 
aback. 

"Big  fireworks!"  said  Clarissa  Eileen  as  Hugo  set  her 
down  in  front  of  Marta,  whose  heart  was  in  her  eyes 
speaking  its  gratitude. 

The  artillery's  maceration  of  the  human  jam  suddenly 
ceased;  perhaps  because  the  gunners  had  seen  the  Red 
Cross  flag  which  a  doctor  had  the  presence  of  mind  to 
wave.  Westerling  turned  from  a  sight  worse  to  him 
than  the  killing — that  of  the  flowing  retreat  along  the 
road  pressing  frantically  over  the  dead  and  wounded  in 


TURNING  THE  TABLES  457 

growing  disorder  for  the  cover  of  the  town,  and  found 
himself  face  to  face  with  the  mask-like  features  of  that 
malingerer  who  had  told  him  on  the  veranda  that  the 
Grays  could  not  win.  Gall  flooded  his  brain.  In  Hugo 
he  recognized  something  kindred  to  the  spirit  that  had 
set  his  army  at  flight,  something  tangible  and  personified; 
and  through  a  mist  of  rage  he  saw  Hugo  smiling — smiling 
as  he  had  at  times  at  the  veranda  court — and  saluting 
him  as  a  superior  officer. 

"Now  I  am  going  to  fight,"  said  Hugo,  "if  they  try 
to  cross  the  white  posts;  to  fight  with  all  the  skill  and 
courage  I  can  command.  But  not  till  then.  They  are 
still  in  their  own  country  and  we  are  not  in  ours.  Then 
they,  in  the  wrong,  will  attack  and  we,  in  the  right,  will 
defend — and,  God  with  us,  we  shall  win." 

Thus  a  second  time  he  had  given  to  the  prayer  of 
Marta's  children  the  life  of  action.  She  could  imagine 
how  steadfastly  and  exaltedly  he  would  face  the  invader. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Galland,"  he  said.  "And  say 
good-by  to  your  mother  and  Minna  for  me." 

He  was  gone,  without  waiting  for  any  reply,  this 
stranger  whom  her  part  had  not  permitted  to  know  well. 
A  thousand  words  striving  for  utterance  choked  her  as 
she  watched  him  pass  out  of  sight.  Westerling  was 
regarding  her  with  a  stare  which  fixed  itself  first  on  one 
thing  and  then  on  another  in  dull  misery.  Near  by 
were  Bellini,  the  chief  of  intelligence,  and  a  subaltern 
who  had  arrived  only  a  minute  before.  The  subaltern 
was  dust-covered.  He  seemed  to  have  come  in  from  a 
hard  ride.  Both  were  watching  Marta,  as  if  waiting  for 
her  to  speak.  She  met  Westerling's  look  steadily,  her 
eyes  dark  and  still  and  in  his  the  reflection  of  the  vague 
realization  of  more  than  he  had  guessed  in  her  relations 
with  Hugo. 

"Well,"  she  breathed  to  Westerling, "  the  war  goes  on ! " 

"That's  it!  That's  the  voice!"  exclaimed  the  subal 
tern  in  an  explosion  of  recognition. 

A  short,  sharp  laugh  of  irony  broke  from  Bellini;  the 


458  THE  LAST  SHOT 

laugh  of  one  whose  suspicions  are  confirmed  in  the  mix 
ture  of  the  sublime  and  the  ridiculous.  Marta  looked 
around  at  the  interruption,  alert,  on  guard. 

"You  seem  amused,"  she  remarked  curiously. 

"No,  but  you  must  have  been,"  replied  Bellini 
hoarsely.  "Early  this  morning,  not  far  from  the  castle, 
this  young  officer  found  in  the  crater  made  by  a  ten-inch 
shell  a  wire  that  ran  in  a  conduit  underground.  The 
wire  was  intact.  He  tapped  it.  He  heard  a  voice 
thanking  some  one  for  her  part  in  the  victory,  and  it 
seems  that  the  woman's  voice  that  answered  is  yours, 
Miss  Galland.  So,  General  Westerling,  the  leak  in 
information  was  over  this  wire  from  our  staff  into  the 
Browns'  headquarters,  as  Bouchard  believed  and  as  I 
came  to  believe." 

So  long  had  Marta  expected  this  moment  of  exposure 
that  it  brought  no  shock.  Her  spirit  had  undergone 
many  subtle  rehearsals  for  the  occasion. 

"Yes,  that  is  true,"  she  heard  herself  saying,  a  little 
distantly,  but  very  quietly  and  naturally. 

Westerling  fell  back  as  from  a  blow  in  the  face.  His 
breath  came  hard  at  first,  like  one  being  strangled. 
Then  it  sank  deep  in  his  chest  and  his  eyes  were  blood 
shot,  as  a  bull's  in  his  final  effort  against  the  matador. 
He  raised  a  quivering,  clenched  fist  and  took  a  step 
nearer  her. 

But  far  from  flinching,  Marta  seemed  to  be  greeting 
the  blow,  as  if  she  admitted  his  right  to  strike.  She 
was  without  any  sign  of  triumph  and  with  every  sign  of 
relief.  Lying  was  at  an  end.  She  could  be  truthful. 

"Do  you  recall  what  I  said  in  the  reception-room  at 
the  hotel?"  she  asked. 

The  question  sent  a  flash  into  a  hidden  chamber  of 
his  mind.  Now  the  only  thing  he  could  remember  of 
that  interview  was  the  one  remark  which  hitherto  he 
had  never  included  in  his  recollection  of  it. 

"You  said  I  could  not  win."  He  drew  out  the  words 
painfully. 


TURNING  THE  TABLES  459 

"And  I  pleaded  with  your  selfishness — the  only  appeal 
to  be  made  to  you,"  she  continued,  "to  prevent  war, 
which  you  could  have  done.  When  you  said  that  you 
brought  on  this  war  to  gratify  your  ambition,  I  chose 
to  be  one  of  the  weapons  of  war;  I  chose,  when  driven 
to  the  wall,  to  be  true  to  that  part  of  my  children's  oath 
that  made  an  exception  of  the  burglar,  the  highwayman, 
and  the  invader.  In  war  you  use  deceit  and  treachery, 
under  the  pleasanter  names  of  tactics  and  strategy,  to 
draw  men  to  their  death  in  traps,  in  order  to  increase 
the  amount  of  your  killing.  It  was  strategy,  tactics, 
manoeuvres — give  it  any  fine  word  you  please — that 
hideous  and  shameless  part  which  I  played.  With  fire  I 
fought  fire.  I  fought  for  civilization,  for  my  home,  with 
the  only  means  I  had  against  the  wickedness  of  a  victory 
of  conquest — the  precedent  of  it  in  this  age — a  victory 
which  should  glorify  such  trickery  as  you  practised  on 
your  people." 

"I  should  like  to  shoot  you  dead!"  cried  Bellini. 

"No  doubt.  I  like  your  honesty  in  saying  so,"  said 
Marta.  "Why  not?  The  business  of  war  is  murder; 
and  as  I  have  engaged  in  it  I  can  claim  no  exception. 
And  why  shouldn't  women  engage  in  it?  Why  should 
they  be  excepted  from  the  sport  when  they  pay  so  many 
of  the  costs?  It's  easy  to  die  and  easy  to  kill.  The 
part  you  force  on  women  is  much  harder.  By  killing 
me  you  admit  me  to  full  equality." 

"You — you—  But  Bellini  had  no  adequate  word 
for  her,  and  his  anger  softened  into  a  kind  of  admiration 
of  her,  of  envy,  perhaps,  that  he  had  had  no  such  ad 
jutant.  It  hardened  again  as  he  looked  Westerling  up 
and  down,  before  turning  to  leave  without  a  salute  or 
even  a  direct  word. 

"And  you  let  me  make  love  to  you!"  Westerling  said 
in  a  dazed,  groping  monotone  to  Marta. 

Such  a  wreck  was  he  of  his  former  self  that  she  found 
it  amazing  that  she  could  not  pity  him.  Yet  she  might 
have  pitied  him  had  he  plunged  into  the  fight;  had  he 


460  THE  LAST  SHOT 

tried  to  rally  one  of  the  broken  regiments;  had  he  been 
able  to  forget  himself. 

"  Rather,  you  made  love  to  yourself  through  me,"  she 
answered,  not  harshly,  not  even  emphatically,  but  merely 
as  a  statement  of  passionless  fact.  "If  you  dared  to 
endure  what  you  ordered  others  to  endure  for  the  sake 
of  your  ambition;  if 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  sharp  zip  in  the  air.  Wester- 
ling  dodged  and  looked  about  wildly. 

"What  is  that?"  he  asked.     "What?" 

Five  or  six  zips  followed  like  a  charge  of  wasps  flying 
at  a  speed  that  made  them  invisible.  Marta  felt  a 
brush  of  air  past  her  cheek  and  Westerling  went  chalky 
white.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  been  under  fire. 
But  these  bullets  were  only  strays.  No  more  came. 

"Come,  general,  let  us  be  going!"  urged  the  aide, 
touching  his  chief  on  the  arm. 

"Yes,  yes!"  said  Westerling  hurriedly. 

Francois,  who  had  picked  up  the  coat  that  had  fallen 
from  Westerling's  shoulders  with  his  start  at  the  buzz 
ing,  held  it  while  his  master  thrust  his  hands  through  the 
sleeves. 

"And  this  is  wiser,"  said  the  aide,  unfastening  the 
detachable  insignia  of  rank  from  the  shoulders  of  the 
greatcoat.  "It's  wiser,  too,  that  we  walk,"  he  added. 

"Walk?  But  my  car!"  exclaimed  Westerling  petu 
lantly. 

"I'm  afraid  that  the  car  could  not  get  through  the 
press  in  the  town,"  was  the  reply.  "Walking  is  safer." 

The  absence  in  him  of  that  quality  which  is  the  sol 
dier's  real  glory,  the  picture  of  this  deserted  leader,  this 
god  of  a  machine  who  had  been  crushed  by  his  machine, 
his  very  lack  of  stoicism  or  courage — all  this  suddenly 
appealed  to  Marta's  quick  sympathies.  They  had  once 
drunk  tea  together. 

"Oh,  it  was  not  personal!  I  did  not  think  of  myself 
as  a  person  or  of  you  as  one — only  of  principles  and  of 
thousands  of  others — to  end  the  killing — to  save  our 


TURNING  THE  TABLES  461 

country  to  its  people!  Oh,  I'm  sorry  and,  personally, 
I'm  horrible — horrible! "  she  called  after  him  in  a  broken, 
quavering  gust  of  words  which  he  heard  confusedly  in 
tragic  mockery. 

He  made  no  answer;  he  did  not  even  look  around. 
Head  bowed  and  hardly  seeing  the  path,  he  permitted 
the  aide  to  choose  the  way,  which  lay  across  the  boundary 
of  the  Galland  estate. 

They  had  passed  the  stumps  of  the  linden-trees  and 
were  in  the  vacant  lot  on  the  other  side,  when  something 
white  fluttered  toward  him,  rustled  by  the  breeze  that 
carried  it,  and  lay  still  almost  at  his  feet.  He  saw  his 
own  picture  on  the  front  page  of  a  newspaper,  with  the 
caption,  "His  Excellency,  Field-Marshal  Hed worth 
Westerling,  Chief  of  Staff  of  Our  Victorious  Army." 
He  stared  at  the  picture  and  the  picture  stared  at  him 
as  if  they  knew  not  each  other.  A  racking  shudder 
swept  through  him.  He  turned  his  face  with  a  kind  of 
resolution,  appealing  in  its  starkness,  toward  the  battle 
and  his  glance  rested  on  the  battery  and  the  shattered 
regiment  of  infantry  in  the  fields  opposite  the  Gal- 
land  gate,  under  a  canopy  of  shrapnel  smoke,  bravely 
holding  their  ground. 

"I  should  be  there.  That  is  the  place  for  me!"  he 
exclaimed  with  a  trace  of  his  old  forcefulness. 

The  aide's  lips  parted  as  if  to  speak  in  protest,  but 
they  closed  in  silence,  while  a  glance  of  deep  human 
understanding,  dissolving  the  barriers  of  caste,  passed 
between  him  and  the  valet,  eloquent  of  their  approval 
and  their  loyal  readiness  to  share  the  fate  of  their  fallen 
chief. 

The  canopy  of  shrapnel  smoke  grew  thicker;  the  in 
fantry  began  to  break. 

"But,  no!"  said  Westerling.  "The  place  for  a  chief 
of  staff  is  at  his  headquarters." 


XLV 
THE  RETREAT 

MARTA  remained  where  Westerling  had  left  her, 
rooted  to  the  ground  by  the  monstrous  spell  of  the  de 
veloping  panorama  of  seemingly  limitless  movement. 
With  each  passing  minute  there  must  be  a  hundred  acts 
of  heroism  which,  if  isolated  in  the  glare  of  a  day's 
news,  would  make  the  public  thrill.  At  the  outset  of 
the  war  she  had  seen  the  Browns,  as  part  of  a  precon 
ceived  plan,  in  cohesive  rear-guard  resistance,  with  every 
detail  of  personal  bravery  a  utilized  factor  of  organized 
purpose.  Now  she  saw  defence,  inchoate  and  frag 
mentary,  each  part  acting  for  itself,  all  deeds  of  personal 
bravery  lost  in  a  swirl  of  disorganization.  That  was  the 
pity  of  it,  the  helplessness  of  engineers  and  of  levers 
when  the  machine  was  broken ;  the  warning  of  it  to  those 
who  undertake  war  lightly. 

The  Browns7  rifle  flashes  kept  on  steadily  weaving 
their  way  down  the  slopes,  their  reserves  pressing  close 
on  the  heels  of  the  skirmishers  in  greedy  swarms.  A 
heavy  column  of  Brown  infantry  was  swinging  in  toward 
the  myriad-legged,  writhing  gray  caterpillar  on  the  pass 
road  and  many  field-batteries  were  trotting  along  a 
parallel  road.  Their  plan  developed  suddenly  when  a 
swath  of  gun-fire  was  laid  across  the  pass  road  at  the 
mouth  of  the  defile,  as  much  as  to  say:  "Here  we  make 
a  gate  of  death!"  At  the  same  time  the  head  of  the 
Brown  infantry  column  flashed  its  bayonets  over  the 
crest  of  a  hill  toward  the  point  where  the  shells  were 
bursting.  These  men  minded  not  the  desperate,  scat 
tered  rifle-fire  into  their  ranks.  Before  their  eyes  was  the 
prize  of  a  panic  that  grew  with  their  approach.  Kinks 

462 


THE  RETREAT  463 

were  out  of  legs  stiffened  by  long  watches.  The  hot 
breath  of  pursuit  was  in  their  nostrils,  the  fever  of  vic 
tory  in  their  blood. 

In  the  defile,  the  impulse  of  one  Gray  straggler,  who 
shook  a  handkerchief  aloft  in  fatalistic  submission  to 
the  inevitable,  became  the  impulse  of  all.  Soon  a 
thousand  white  signals  of  surrender  were  blossoming. 
As  the  firing  abruptly  ceased,  Marta  heard  the  faint 
roar  of  the  mighty  huzzas  of  the  hunters  over  the  size 
of  their  bag. 

In  the  area  visible  to  Marta  was  the  strife  of  forces 
larger  than  the  largest  that  Napoleon  ever  led  in  battle; 
as  large  as  fought  the  decisive  battle  in  the  last  war  of 
the  Grays.  But  here  was  only  a  section  of  the  raging 
whole  from  frontier  end  to  frontier  end.  The  immensity 
of  it!  All  the  young  manhood  of  a  nation  employed! 
Marta  ceased  to  see  any  particular  incident  of  the  scene. 
All  was  confused  in  a  red  mist — red  as  blood.  She,  the 
one  being  in  that  landscape  who  was  a  detached  ob 
server,  felt  herself  condemned  to  watch  the  war  go  on 
forever. 

An  edge  of  the  curtain  of  mist  lifted.  Sight  and  mind 
and  soul  concentrated  on  the  nearest  horror.  She  saw 
the  whirlpool  at  the  foot  of  the  garden,  horses  and  men 
in  a  struggle  among  dead  and  wounded,  which  had  grown 
fiercer  now  that  the  portion  of  the  retreat  that  had  not 
been  cut  off  in  the  defile  pressed  forward  the  more  madly. 
She  had  thought  of  herself  as  ashes;  as  an  immovable 
creature  of  flayed  nerves,  incapable  of  raising  her  hand 
to  change  the  march  of  events.  But  the  misery  that  she 
saw  intimately,  almost  within  stone's  throw  of  her  door, 
broke  the  spell  with  its  appeal.  The  hectic  energy  of 
battle  speeded  her  steps  in  the  blessed  oblivion  of  action. 

Some  doctors  of  different  regiments  thrown  together 
in  the  havoc  of  remnants  of  many  organizations,  with 
the  help  of  hospital-corps  men,  were  trying  to  extricate 
the  wounded  from  among  the  dead.  They  heard  a 
woman's  voice  and  saw  a  woman's  face.  They  did  not 


464  THE  LAST  SHOT 

wonder  at  her  presence,  for  there  was  nothing  left  in 
the  world  for  them  to  wonder  at.  Had  an  imp  from  hell 
or  an  angel  from  heaven  appeared,  or  a  shower  of 
diamonds  fallen  from  the  sky,  they  would  not  have  been 
surprised.  Their  duty  was  clear;  there  was  work  of  their 
kind  to  do,  endless  work.  Units  of  the  broken  machine, 
in  the  instinct  of  their  calling  they  struggled  with  the 
duty  nearest  at  hand. 

"  What  do  you  need?    What  can  I  do?  "  Marta  asked. 

"Rest,  shelter,  safety  for  these  poor  fellows,"  answered 
one  of  the  doctors. 

"There  is  the  house — our  house!"  said  Marta. 

"My  God!  Aren't  you  men?"  bellowed  an  officer. 
" Get  away  from  the  road!  Come  out  here!  Form  line! 
You — you;  I  mean  you!" 

"You  who  can  walk — you  who  aren't  hurt,  you 
cowards,  give  us  a  hand  with  the  wounded!"  shouted 
another  doctor. 

The  soldiers  were  deaf  to  commands,  but  they  heard  a 
feminine  voice  above  the  oaths  and  groans  and  heavy 
breathing  and  rustle  of  pressing  bodies  and  thrusting 
arms;  a  feminine  voice,  clear  and  steadying  in  that  orgy 
of  male  ferocity.  It  was  like  a  chemical  precipitate 
clearing  muddy  water.  Their  wild  glances  saw  a  woman's 
features  in  exaltation  and  in  her  eyes  something  as 
definite  as  the  fire  of  command.  She  was  shaming  them 
for  their  unmanliness;  shaming  their  panic — the  foolish 
panic  at  a  theatre  exit — and  giving  orders  as  if  that  were 
her  part  and  theirs  was  to  obey;  a  woman  to  soldiers, 
the  weak  sex  to  the  strong.  They  did  obey,  under  the 
spell  of  the  amazing  fact  of  her  presence,  in  the  relief 
of  having  some  simple  human  purpose  to  cling  to. 

After  the  work  was  begun  they  needed  no  urging  to 
carry  the  wounded  up  the  terrace  steps;  and  men  who 
had  knocked  down  and  trampled  on  the  wounded  were 
gentle  with  them  now,  under  the  guidance  of  better  im 
pulses.  How  could  they  falter  directed  by  a  woman  un 
mindful  of  occasional  shells  and  bullet  whistles?  They 


THE  RETREAT  465 

begged  her  to  go  back  to  the  house;  this  was  no  place 
for  her. 

But  Marta  did  not  want  safety.  Danger  was  sweet; 
it  was  expiation.  She  was  helping,  actually  helping;  that 
was  enough.  She  envied  the  peaceful  dead — they  had 
no  nightmares — as  she  aided  the  doctors  in  separating 
the  bodies  that  were  still  breathing  from  those  that  were 
not;  and  she  steeled  herself  against  every  ghastly  sight 
save  one,  that  of  a  man  lying  with  his  legs  pinned  under 
a  wagon  body.  His  jaw  had  been  shot  away.  Slowly 
he  was  bleeding  to  death,  but  he  did  not  realize  it.  He 
realized  nothing  in  his  delirium  except  the  nature  of 
his  wound.  He  was  dipping  his  finger  in  the  cavity 
and,  dab  by  dab,  writing  "Kill  me!"  on  the  wagon  body. 
It  sent  reeling  waves  of  red  before  her  eyes.  Then  a 
shell  burst  near  her  and  a  doctor  cried  out: 

"She's  hit!" 

But  Marta  did  not  hear  him.  She  heard  only  the 
dreadful  crack  of  the  splitting  shrapnel  jacket.  She 
had  a  sense  of  falling,  and  that  was  all. 

The  next  that  she  knew  she  was  in  a  long  chair  on 
the  veranda  and  the  vague  shadows  bending  over  her 
gradually  identified  themselves  as  her  mother  and  Minna. 

"I  remember  when  you  were  telling  of  the  last  war 
that  you  didn't  swoon  at  the  sight  of  the  wounded, 
mother,"  Marta  whispered. 

"But  I  was  not  wounded,"  replied  Mrs.  Galland. 

Marta  ceased  to  be  only  a  consciousness  swimming  in 
a  haze.  With  the  return  of  her  faculties,  she  noticed 
that  both  her  mother  and  Minna  were  looking  signifi 
cantly  at  her  forearm;  so  she  looked  at  it,  too.  It  was 
bandaged. 

"A  cut  from  a  shrapnel  fragment,"  said  a  doctor. 
"Not  deep,"  he  added. 

"Do  I  get  an  iron  cross?"  she  asked,  smiling  faintly. 
It  was  rather  pleasant  to  be  alive. 

"All  the  crosses — iron  and  bronze  and  silver  and 
gold!"  he  replied. 


466  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"You  forgot  platinum,"  she  said  almost  playfully,  as 
she  found  nerves,  muscles,  and  bones  intact  after  that 
drop  over  a  precipice  into  a  black  chasm.  It  was  like 
the  Marta  of  the  days  before  she  had  undertaken  to 
reform  all  creation,  her  mother  was  thinking.  "Did  I 
help  any?"  she  asked  seriously. 

"Well,  I  should  say  so!"  declared  the  doctor.  "I 
should  say  so!"  he  repeated.  "You  did  the  whole  busi 
ness  down  there  by  the  gate." 

"Yes,  the  whole  business!  I  brought  it  all  on — all! 
I—  She  flung  a  wild  gesture  at  the  landscape  and  then 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  "Yes,  I  did  the  whole 
business.  I — I  played,  smiled,  lied!  That  awful  sight 
— and  he  might  not  have  been  writing  'kill  me'  if 
I- 

The  doctor  grasped  her  shoulders  to  keep  her  from 
rising.  He  spoke  the  first  soothing  words  that  came  to 
mind.  There  was  another  shudder,  an  effort  at  control, 
and  her  hands  dropped  and  she  was  looking  up  with  a 
dull  steadiness. 

"I'm  not  going  mad!"  she  exclaimed.  "What  hap 
pened  to — to  that  man  who  was  pleading  for  death? 
Did  any  one  who  had  been  engaged  in  killing  men  who 
wanted  to  live  kill  the  one  who  wanted  to  die?" 

"The  shell  burst  that  wounded  you  finished  him," 
said  the  doctor. 

"Which,  of  course,  was  quite  according  to  the  tenets 
of  civilization,  which  wouldn't  have  allowed  it  to  be  done 
as  an  open  act  of  mercy!"  said  Marta.  "But  that  is 
only  satire.  It  is  of  no  service,"  she  added,  rising  to  a 
sitting  posture  to  look  around. 

The  struggle  by  the  gate  was  over.  All  the  uninjured 
had  made  good  their  escape.  A  Red  Cross  flag  floated 
above  the  wounded  and  the  debris  of  overturned  wagons. 
Brown  skirmishers  were  descending  the  near-by  slopes 
and  crossing  the  path  of  the  cavalry  charge.  Signal- 
corps  men  were  spinning  out  their  wires.  A  regiment 
of  guns  were  being  emplaced  behind  a  foot-hill.  A  re- 


THE  RETREAT  467 

turning  Brown  dirigible  swept  over  the  town.  All 
firing  except  occasional  scattered  shots  had  ceased  in 
the  immediate  vicinity,  though  in  the  distance  could  be 
heard  the  snarl  of  the  firmer  resistance  that  the  Grays 
were  making  at  some  other  point.  The  Galland  house, 
for  the  time  being,  was  isolated — in  possession  of  neither 
side. 

"Isn't  there  something  else  I  can  do  to  help  with  the 
wounded?"  Marta  asked.  She  longed  for  action  in 
order  to  escape  her  thoughts. 

"  You've  had  a  terrible  shock — when  you  are  stronger," 
said  the  doctor. 

"When  you  have  had  something  to  eat  and  drink," 
observed  the  practical  Minna  authoritatively. 

Marta  would  not  have  the  food  brought  to  her.  She 
insisted  that  she  was  strong  enough  to  accompany 
Minna  to  the  tower.  While  Minna  urged  mouthfuls 
down  Marta's  dry  throat  as  she  sat  outside  the  door  of 
the  sitting-room  with  her  mother  a  number  of  weary, 
dust-streaked  faces,  with  feverish  energy  in  their  eyes, 
peered  over  the  hedge  that  bounded  the  garden  on  the  side 
toward  the  pass.  These  scout  skirmishers  of  Stransky's 
men  of  the  53d  Regiment  of  the  Browns  made  beckon 
ing  gestures  as  to  a  crowd,  before  they  sprang  over  the 
hedge  and  ran  swiftly,  watchfully,  toward  the  linden 
stumps,  closely  followed  by  their  comrades.  Soon  the 
whole  garden  was  overrun  by  the  lean,  businesslike 
fellows,  their  glances  all  ferret-like  to  the  front. 

"Look,  Minna!"  exclaimed  Marta.  "The  giant  who 
carried  the  old  man  in  pickaback  the  first  night  of  the 
war!" 

"Yes,  the  bold  impudence  of  him!"  said  Minna.  "As 
if  there  was  nothing  that  could  stand  in  his  way  and 
what  he  wanted  he  would  have!" 

But  Minna  was  flushing  as  she  spoke.  The  flush  dis 
sipated  and  she  drew  up  her  chin  when  Stransky,  look 
ing  around,  recognized  her  with  a  merry,  confident  wave 
of  his  hand. 


468  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"See,  he's  a  captain  and  he  wears  an  iron  cross!"  said 
Marta  as  Stransky  hastened  toward  them. 

"He  acts  like  it!"  assented  Minna  grudgingly. 

Eager,  leviathan,  his  cap  doffed  with  a  sweeping  ges 
ture  as  he  made  a  low  bow,  Stransky  was  the  very  spirit 
of  retributive  victory  returning  to  claim  the  ground  that 
he  had  lost. 

"Well,  this  is  like  getting  home  again!"  he  cried. 

"So  I  see!"  said  Minna  equivocally. 

Stransky  drew  his  eyes  together,  sighting  them  on  the 
bridge  of  his  nose  thoughtfully  at  this  dubious  reception. 

"I  came  back  for  the  chance  to  kiss  a  good  woman's 
hand,"  he  observed  with  a  profound  awkwardness  and 
looking  at  Minna's  hand.  "Your  hand!"  he  added,  the 
cast  in  his  eyes  straightening  as  he  looked  directly  at  her 
appealingly. 

She  extended  her  finger-tips  and  he  pressed  his  lips 
to  them.  Then  she  drew  back  a  step,  a  trifle  pale,  her 
eyes  sad  and  questioning,  more  than  ever  Madonna-like, 
and  curled  her  arm  around  little  Clarissa  Eileen,  who  had 
stolen  to  her  mother's  side. 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Clarissa  Eileen,  pointing  to 
the  cross  on  Stransky's  breast. 

"That,"  observed  Stransky  deliberately,  "is  a  little 
piece  of  metal  that  I  got  for  an  inspiration  of  manhood. 
It  doesn't  cost  the  price  of  a  day's  rations,  but  it's  one  of 
the  things  which  money  can't  buy — not  yet — in  this 
commercial  age.  One  of  those  institutions  of  barbarism 
that  we  anarchists  call  government  gave  it  to  me,  and 
I'll  never  part  with  it!" 

"Because  he  was  a  brave  soldier,  Clarissa,"  explained 
Marta  in  simpler  terms.  "Because  he  was  ready  to  die 
for  his  country." 

"And  for  your  mother!"  put  in  Stransky,  seizing 
Clarissa  in  his  great  hands  and  lifting  her  lightly  to  the 
level  of  his  face.  "Oh,  I've  got  stories,"  he  said  to  her, 
"a  soldier-man's  stories,  to  tell  you,  young  lady,  one  of 
these  days — and  such  stories!" 


THE  RETREAT  469 

He  crossed  his  eyes  over  his  big  nose  in  a  fashion  that 
made  Clarissa  clap  her  hands  and  burst  into  a  peal  of 
laughter. 

" You're  an  awfully  funny  man!"  she  declared  as 
Stransky  set  her  down. 

"So  your  mother  thinks,"  said  Stransky,  blinking  at 
Minna,  who  had  indulged  in  a  smile  which  his  remark 
promptly  ironed  out. 

This  irrepressible  soldier,  given  so  much  as  an  inch, 
would  be  demanding  a  province.  But  erasing  a  smile  is 
not  destroying  the  fact  of  it.  Stransky  took  heart  for 
the  charge  on  seeing  a  breach  in  the  enemy's  lines. 

"Yes,  I  was  fighting  for  you!"  he  burst  out  to  Minna. 
"When  the  other  fellows  were  reading  letters  from  their 
sweethearts  I  was  imagining  letters  from  you.  I  even 
wrote  out  some  and  posted  them  from  one  pocket  to 
another,  in  place  of  the  regular  mails." 

"What  did  you  say  in  those  letters?"  asked  Marta. 

"Why,  you're  big  and  awkward  and  cross-eyed, 
Stransky,  but  you've  a  way  with  you,  and  maybe " 

"Humph!"  sniffed  Minna. 

"I  kept  seeing  the  way  you  looked  when  you  belted 
me  one  in  the  face,"  he  went  on  unabashed  to  Minna, 
"and  knocked  any  anarchism  out  of  me  that  was  left 
after  the  shell  burst.  I  kept  seeing  your  face  in  my  last 
glimpse  when  the  Grays  made  me  run  for  it  from  your 
kitchen  door  before  I  had  half  a  chance  for  the  oration 
crying  for  voice.  You  were  in  my  dreams!  You  were 
in  battle  with  me!" 

"This  sounds  like  a  disordered  mind,"  observed 
Minna.  "I've  heard  men  talk  that  way  before." 

"Oh,  I  have  talked  that  way  to  other  women  myself!" 
said  Stransky. 

"Yes,"  said  Minna  bitterly.  His  candor  was  rather 
unexpected. 

"I  have  talked  to  others  in  passing  on  the  high  road," 
he  continued.  "But  never  after  a  woman  had  struck 
me  in  the  face.  That  blow  sank  deep — deep — deep  as 


470  THE  LAST  SHOT 

what  Lanstron  said  when  I  revolted  on  the  march.  *•  I 
say  it  to  you  with  this" — he  touched  the  cross — "on  my 
breast.  And  I'm  not  going  to  give  you  up.  It's  a  big 
world.  There's  room  in  it  for  a  place  for  you  after  the 
war  is  over  and  I'm  going  to  make  the  place.  Yes,  I've 
found  myself.  I've  found  how  to  lead  men.  My  home 
isn't  to  be  in  the  hedgerows  any  more.  It's  to  be  where 
you  are.  You  and  I,  whom  society  gave  a  kick,  will 
make  society  give  us  a  place!"  He  was  eloquent  in  his 
strength;  eloquent  in  the  fire  of  resolution  blazing  from 
his  eyes.  "And  I'll  be  back  again,"  he  concluded. 
"You  can't  shake  me.  I'll  camp  on  your  door-step. 
But  now  I've  got  to  look  after  my  company.  Good-by 
till  I'm  back— back  to  stay!  Good-by,  little  daughter!" 
he  added  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  to  Clarissa  as  he 
turned  to  go.  "Maybe  we  shall  have  our  own  auto 
mobile  some  day.  It's  no  stranger  than  what's  been 
happening  to  me  since  the  war  began." 

"If  you  don't  marry  him,  Minna,  I'll— I'll—  Mrs. 
Galland  could  not  find  words  for  the  fearful  thing  that 
she  would  do. 

"Marry  him!  I  have  only  met  him  three  times  for 
about  three  minutes  each  time!"  protested  Minna.  She 
was  as  rosy  as  a  girl  and  in  her  confusion  she  busied  her 
self  re  tying  the  ribbon  on  Clarissa  Eileen's  hair.  "He 
called  you  little  daughter!"  she  said  softly  to  the  child 
as  she  withdrew  into  the  tower. 

"I  am  glad  we  didn't  send  Minna  away  when  misfor 
tune  befell  her,"  said  Mrs.  Galland.  "You  were  right 
about  that,  Marta,  with  your  new  ideas.  What  a  trea 
sure  she  has  been!" 

Marta  was  scarcely  hearing  her  mother;  certainly  not 
finding  any  credit  for  herself  in  the  remark.  She  was 
thinking  what  a  simple,  what  a  glorious  thing  was  a 
love  such  as  Stransky's  and  Minna's:  the  mating  of  a 
man  and  a  woman  whose  brains  were  not  oversensitized 
by  too  complicated  mentality;  of  a  man  and  a  woman 
direct  and  sincere,  primarily  and  clearly  a  man  and  a 


THE  RETREAT  471 

woman.  Such  happiness  could  never  be  for  her  now; 
for  her  who  had  let  a  man  make  love  to  her  for  his  own 
undoing. 

The  skirmishers  having  halted  beyond  the  linden 
stumps,  the  reserves  were  stacking  their  rifles  and 
dropping  to  rest  in  the  garden.  The  sight  of  the  uni 
forms  of  the  deliverers,  of  her  own  people,  stirred  Mrs. 
Galland  to  unwonted  activity.  She  moved  here  and 
there  among  them  with  smiles  of  mothering  pride.  She 
told  them  how  brave  they  were;  how  her  husband  had 
been  a  colonel  of  Hussars  in  the  last  war.  They  must 
be  tired  and  hungry.  She  hurried  in  to  Minna,  and  to 
gether  they  emptied  the  larder  of  everything,  even  to 
the  lumps  of  sugar,  which  were  impartially  bestowed. 

But  Marta  remained  in  the  chair  by  the  doorway  of 
the  tower,  weak  and  listless.  She  was  weary  of  the  sight 
of  uniforms  and  bayonets.  In  the  dreary  opaqueness  of 
her  mind  flickered  one  tiny,  bright  light  as  through  a 
blanket;  that  she  herself  had  been  in  danger.  She  had 
been  under  fire.  She  had  not  merely  sent  men  to  death; 
she  had  been  in  death's  company. 

Now  her  lashes  were  closed ;  again  they  opened  slightly 
as  her  gaze  roved  the  semicircle  of  the  horizon.  A 
mounted  officer  and  his  orderly  galloping  across  the  fields 
to  the  pass  road  caught  her  desultory  attention  and  held 
it,  for  they  formed  the  most  impetuous  object  on  the 
landscape.  When  the  officer  alighted  at  the  foot  of  the 
garden  and  tossed  his  reins  to  the  orderly,  she  detected 
something  familiar  about  him.  He  leaped  the  garden 
wall  at  a  bound  and,  half  running,  came  toward  the 
tower.  Not  until  he  lifted  his  cap  and  waved  it  did  she 
associate  this  lithe,  dapper  artillerist  with  a  stooped  old 
gardener  in  blue  blouse  and  torn  straw  hat  who  had  once 
shuffled  among  the  flowers  at  her  service. 

"Hello!  Hello!"  he  shouted  in  clarion  greeting  at 
sight  of  her.  " Hello,  my  successor!" 

Only  in  the  whiteness  of  his  hair  was  he  like  the  old 
Feller.  His  tone,  the  boyish  sparkle  of  his  black  eyes, 


472  THE  LAST  SHOT 

those  full,  expressive  lips  playing  over  the  brilliant 
teeth,  his  easy  grace,  his  quick  and  telling  gestures — 
they  were  of  the  Feller  of  cadet  days.  Something  in 
his  look  as  he  stopped  in  front  of  her  startled  Marta. 
Suddenly  he  bent  over  and  drew  down  his  face,  with 
dropping  underlip. 

"I'm  deaf — stone  deaf,  if  you  please!"  he  wheezed  in 
senile  fashion. 

She  had  to  laugh  and  he  laughed,  too,  with  the  ringing 
tone  of  youth  that  made  him  seem  younger  than  his 
years. 

"Not  a  gardener — a  colonel  of  artillery,  in  the  uni 
form,  under  the  flag  again,  thanks  to  you!"  he  cried. 
"An  officer  once  more!" 

"I'm  glad!"  she  exclaimed.  Here  was  one  thing  more 
to  the  credit  of  war. 

"Thanks  to  you,  instead  of  being  shot  as  a  spy- 
thanks  to  you!"  More  than  the  emotion  of  the  brimming 
gratitude  of  his  heart  shone  through  his  mobile  features. 

"It  was  your  choice;  you  improved  it.  You  ful 
filled  a  faith  that  I  had  in  you,"  she  said. 

"  Faith  in  me !  That  is  the  finest  tribute  of  all— better 
than  this,  better  than  this!"  He  touched  the  iron  cross 
on  his  coat  as  Stransky  had  to  Minna. 

"And  I  took  your  place,"  said  Marta  with  a  dull,  slow 
emphasis. 

Yes,  he  did  owe  much  to  her,  she  was  thinking.  In 
his  place  she  had  lied;  his  part  she  had  played  in  shame 
and  no  future  act,  she  felt,  could  ever  expiate  it.  The 
teacher  of  peace,  she  had  become  the  partisan  of  war 
in  wicked  cunning. 

He  guessed  nothing  of  what  lay  behind  her  words. 
He  had  forgotten  her  children's  school. 

"And  did  my  work  better  than  I  could!  You  are 
wonderful,  wonderful!"  He  was  aglow  with  admira 
tion,  with  awe,  with  adoration. 

She  smiled  faintly,  bitterly,  while  he  burst  into  a  flood 
of  talk. 


THE  RETREAT  473 

"I  was  back  with  the  guns  you  had  given  me  when  I 
heard  that  you  were  taking  my  place.  Then  I  thought, 
can  I  be  worthy  of  this — of  what  you  have  done  for  me, 
giving  me  back  my  own  world,  your  world?  I  vowed  I 
would  be  worthy — worthy  of  you.  Heavens!  How  I 
made  the  guns  play — bang-bang-bang!"  He  cupped  his 
hands  over  his  eyes  as  an  imaginary  range-finder,  sweep 
ing  the  field.  "Oh,  they  are  beautiful  guns,  these  new 
models!  With  a  battalion  I  won  a  regiment.  I  asked 
Lanny  to  tell  you;  did  he?" 

"Yes,  and  also  of  the  iron  cross." 

"A  fine  bit  of  metal,  the  cross,  and  they  have  not  been 
giving  them  too  promiscuously,  either,"  said  Feller. 
"But  they're  not  gun-metal!  That  is  the  real  metal. 
It  was  my  guns  that  closed  the  gate  to  the  pass,"  he 
went  on,  swept  by  the  flood  of  enthusiasm.  "I  didn't 
open  fire  till  I  could  concentrate  so  as  to  make  a  solidly 
locked  gate.  I  tell  you,  the  guns  are  the  thing!  You 
ought  to  have  seen  that  retreat  curl  up  on  itself.  And 
where  the  shells  struck  on  the  hard  road — phew!  They 
lifted  the  Grays  upward  to  meet  shrapnel  pounding 
them  from  the  sky!  We  could  have  torn  the  whole 
column  to  pieces  if  they  hadn't  surrendered.  What  a 
bag  of  rifles  and  guns  and  stores  is  going  to  our  capital! 
Oh,  our  friends  the  Grays  were  a  little  too  fast!  They 
didn't  know  what  the  guns  meant  in  defence.  The 
guns — they  are  back  to  their  old  place  of  glory  1  They 
rule!" 

"Was  it  your  guns  that  fired  into  the  melee  there  by 
the  gate?"  Marta  asked. 

"Yes.  I  saw  that  soft  target  early.  They  put  up  a 
Red  Cross  flag  at  first,  but  I  soon  realized  that  it  wasn't 
any  dressing  station;  only  stragglers;  only  the  kind  that 
run  away  without  orders.  So  I  let  them  have  it,  for 
that's  the  law  of  war,  and  the  way  they  would  give  it  to 
us  and  did,  more  than  once.  But  I  took  care  that  no 
shots  were  fired  at  the  house,  though  if  it  had  not  been 
your  house  I'd  have  sent  a  shell  or  two  on  the  chance 


474  THE  LAST  SHOT 

that  some  of  the  Gray  staff  might  still  be  there.  Then, 
after  the  surrender,  I  kept  spanking  that  lot  with  inter 
mittent  shells  till  I  was  sure  the  Red  Cross  flag  was 
justified." 

"The  fire  was  very  accurate,  as  I  happen  to  know,  for 
it  wounded  me,"  said  Marta. 

So  intent  had  he  been  in  talking  to  his  audience,  to 
her  eyes,  that  now  for  the  first  time  he  noticed  the 
bandage  on  her  forearm.  His  impressionable  features 
were  as  struck  with  alarm  and  horror  at  sight  of  the  tiny 
red  spot  as  if  she  had  been  in  danger  of  immediate  death. 

"You — you  were  down  by  the  road?"  he  gasped. 
"My  guns  were  firing  at  you?  Why — how?" 

"Helping  with  the  wounded." 

"The  Gray  wounded?" 

"Yes." 

"Of  course,  you  would — with  any  wounded!"  he  cried. 
"Splendid!  Like  you!  It  is  not  bad?  It  does  not  pain 
you?" 

He  bent  over  the  red  spot,  his  lips  very  near  it  and 
twitching,  all  his  volatile  force  melting  into  solicitude 
and  his  voice  taut,  as  if  he  himself  were  suffering  the 
anguish  of  a  dozen  wounds. 

"Only  a  scratch.  Don't  worry  about  it!"  she  assured 
him  soothingly,  with  a  peculiar  smile. 

Now  he  made  a  gesture  of  amazement,  catching  at 
another  thought  that  darted  as  a  shooting  star  across 
his  mind. 

1 1  Wonderful — wounded !  Wonderful !  Was  there  ever 
such  a  woman?"  he  cried.  "No,  I  knew  from  the  first 
there  never  was.  The  minute  the  way  was  clear  and  I 
could  be  spared  from  my  guns  I  came  to  you — to  you! 
This  time  I  come  not  as  a  deaf,  cringing,  watery-eyed 
old  gardener" — for  an  instant  he  was  the  gardener — 
"but  as  one  of  your  world,  to  which  I  was  bred,"  and 
his  shoulders,  rising,  filled  out  his  uniform  in  the  grace 
of  the  commander  of  men  in  action.  "Destiny  has 
played  with  us.  It  sent  a  spy  to  your  garden.  It  put 


THE  RETREAT  475 

you  in  my  place.  A  strange  service,  ours — yes,  des 
tiny  is  in  it!" 

"Yes,"  she  breathed  painfully,  his  suggestion  strik 
ing  deep. 

She  was  staring  at  the  ground,  her  face  very  still. 
Yes,  it  was  he  who  had  started  the  train  of  circumstances 
that  had  left  her  with  a  memory  more  tragic  than  the 
one  that  had  whitened  his  hair.  His  memory  was 
already  erased.  What  could  ever  erase  hers?  He  had 
begun  anew.  How  could  she  ever  begin  anew?  The  fact 
of  this  man  talking  of  everything  as  destiny — of  the 
slaughter,  the  misery,  as  destiny — was  the  worst  mockery 
of  all.  Yet  he  was  true  to  himself.  His  enjoyed  facility 
of  fervid  expression,  his  boyishness,  his  gift  of  making 
the  lived  moment  the  greatest  of  his  life,  was  the  very 
gift  she  had  craved  to  make  her  forget  her  yesterdays. 
Only  faintly  did  she  hear  his  next  outburst,  until  he 
came  to  the  end. 

"I  come  with  the  question  which  I  had  sealed  in  my 
lonely  heart,"  he  was  saying,  "while  I  lived  a  lie  and 
trimmed  rose-bushes  and  hung  on  your  words.  You 
saved  me.  I  fought  for  you.  You  were  in  my  eyes,  in 
my  fingers,  in  my  brain  as  I  directed  the  fire  of  my  guns. 
'  She  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  I  am  a  colonel ! '  I  kept 
thinking.  I  love  you!  I  love  you!" 

Marta  started  up  from  her  chair,  her  eyes  moist  and 
open  wide,  amazed,  but  growing  kind  and  troubled. 
Had  she  been  guilty  of  giving  him  hope?  Was  there 
something  in  her  that  had  led  him  on,  a  shame  that 
came  natural  to  her  since  she  had  let  Westerling  pro 
ceed  with  his  love?  Her  guilt  in  Feller's  case  was  worse 
than  in  Westerling's.  A  thousand  Westerlings  were  not 
worth  one  Feller.  And  he  had  been  near  her,  near  as 
a  comrade,  in  imagination,  with  his  ready  suggestions 
of  how  to  play  her  part  in  its  most  exacting  moments ! 
While  he  stood,  the  picture  of  the  eager,  impatient  lover 
trembling  for  an  answer  that  seemed  to  mean  heaven 
or  perdition  for  him,  the  kindness  that  went  with  the 


476  THE  LAST  SHOT 

trouble  in  her  eyes  warmed  to  fondness,  as  she  laid  her 
fingers  on  his  shoulder. 

"You  would  want  me  to  love  you,  wouldn't  you?" 
she  asked  gently.  "And  if  I  cannot?  Yes,  if  I  can 
neither  act  nor  play  at  love,  so  real  must  love  be  to  me?  " 

He  turned  miserable,  with  eyes  seeming  to  sink  into  his 
head,  and  body  to  wilt  in  the  dejection  of  that  pitiful, 
hopeless  attitude  when  his  secret  had  been  discovered 
in  the  tower  sitting-room. 

"Act!    Act!"  he  murmured. 

"Yes."  Her  fingers  exercised  the  faintest  pressure  on 
his  shoulder.  "Your  true  love,  your  one  enduring  love,  is 
the  guns.  All  other  loves  come  and  go.  To-morrow,  if 
not,  next  day,  in  this  big,  throbbing  world,  with  your 
future  assured,  as  you  lived  other  great  moments  you 
would  look  back  on  this  moment  as  another  part  that 
you  had  acted — and  so  beautifully  acted." 

"Act!  Act!"  he  repeated,  like  one  who  is  coming  to 
grip  with  facts. 

For  a  period  he  stared  at  the  ground  before  he  reached 
for  the  hand  on  his  shoulder,  which  he  pressed  in  both  of 
his,  looking  soberly  into  her  eyes.  He  smiled;  smiled 
apparently  at  a  memory,  let  her  hand  drop,  and  raised 
his  own  hands,  palms  out,  in  a  gesture  of  good-humored 
comprehension. 

"You  know  me!"  he  exclaimed.  "But  I  did  it  well, 
didn't  I?"  he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"Beautifully.  I  repeat,  it  was  convincingly  real," 
she  replied,  laughing  in  relief. 

"If  I  hadn't,  it  would  have  been  most  disappointing 
after  all  my  rehearsals,"  he  went  on.  "Yes,  you  know 
me!  Why,  I  might  have  been  wanting  to  break  the  en 
gagement  in  a  week  because  I  was  beginning  other  re 
hearsals!"  He  laughed,  too,  as  if  relishing  the  prospect. 
"Yes,  I  act — act  always,  except  with  the  guns.  They 
alone  are  real!"  he  burst  out  in  joyous  fury.  "We  are 
going  on,  I  and  my  guns,  on  to  the  best  yet — on  in  the 
pursuit!  Nothing  can  stop  us!  We  shall  hit  the  Grays 


THE  RETREAT  477 

so  fast  and  hard  that  they  can  never  get  their  machine 
in  order  again.  God  bless  you!  Everything  that  is 
fine  in  me  will  always  think  finely  of  you!  You  and 
Lanny — two  fixed  stars  for  me!" 

"Truly ! "  She  was  radiant.  " Truly? "  she  asked  wist 
fully. 

"Yes,  yes — a  yes  as  real  as  the  guns!" 

"Then  it  helps!  Oh,  how  it  helps!"  she  murmured 
almost  inaudibly. 

"Good-by!  God  bless  you!"  he  cried  as  he  started 
to  go,  adding  over  his  shoulder  merrily:  "I'll  send  you  a 
picture  post-card  from  the  Grays'  capital  of  my  guns 
parked  in  the  palace  square." 

She  watched  him  leap  the  garden  wall  as  lightly  as  he 
had  come  and  gallop  away,  an  impersonation  of  the  gay, 
adventurous  spirit  of  war,  counting  death  and  wounds 
and  hardship  as  the  delights  of  the  gamble.  Yes,  he 
would  follow  the  Grays,  throwing  shells  in  the  irrespon 
sible  joy  of  tossing  confetti  in  a  carnival.  Pursuit! 
Was  Feller's  the  sentiment  of  the  army?  Were  the 
Browns  not  to  stop  at  the  frontier?  Were  they  to 
change  their  song  to,  "Now  we  have  ours  we  shall  take 
some  of  theirs"?  The  thought  was  fresh  fuel  to  the  live 
coals  that  still  remained  under  the  ashes. 

A  brigade  commander  and  some  of  his  staff-officers 
near  by  formed  a  group  with  faces  intent  around  an 
operator  who  was  attaching  his  instrument  to  a  field- 
wire  that  had  just  been  reeled  over  the  hedge.  Marta 
moved  toward  them,  but  paused  on  hearing  an  outburst 
of  jubilant  exclamations: 

"A  hundred  thousand  prisoners!" 

"And  five  hundred  guns!" 

"We're  closing  in  on  their  frontier  all  along  the  line!" 

"It's  incredible!" 

"But  the  word  is  official— it's  right!" 

From  mouth  to  mouth — a  hundred  thousand  prisoners, 
five  hundred  guns — the  news  was  passed  in  the  garden. 
Eyes  dull  with  fatigue  began  flashing  as  the  soldiers 


478  THE  LAST  SHOT 

broke  into  a  cheer  that  was  not  led,  a  cheer  unlike  any 
Marta  had  heard  before.  It  had  the  high  notes  of  men 
who  were  weary,  of  a  terrible  exultation,  of  spirit  stronger 
than  tired  legs  and  as  yet  unsatisfied.  Other  exclamations 
from  both  officers  and  men  expressed  a  hunger  whetted 
by  the  taste  of  one  day's  victory. 

"Well  go  on!" 

"We'll  make  peace  in  their  capital!" 

"And  with  an  indemnity  that  will  stagger  the  world!" 

"Nothing  is  impossible  with  Lanstron.  How  he  has 
worked  it  out — baited  them  to  their  own  destruction!" 

"A  frontier  of  our  own  choosing!" 

"On  the  next  range.  We  will  keep  all  that  stretch  of 
plain  there!" 

"And  the  river,  too!" 

"They  shall  pay — pay  for  attacking  us!" 

Pay,  pay  for  the  drudgery,  the  sleepless  nights,  the 
dead  and  the  wounded — for  our  dead  and  wounded! 
No  matter  about  theirs!  The  officers  were  too  intent  in 
their  elation  to  observe  a  young  woman,  standing  quite 
still,  her  lips  a  thin  line  and  a  deep  blaze  in  her  eyes  as 
she  looked  this  way  and  that  at  the  field  of  faces,  seek 
ing  some  dissentient,  some  partisan  of  the  right.  She 
was  seeing  the  truth  now;  the  cold  truth,  the  old  truth 
to  which  she  had  been  untrue  when  she  took  Feller's 
place.  There  could  be  no  choice  of  sides  in  war  unless 
you  believed  in  war.  One  who  fought  for  peace  must 
take  up  arms  against  all  armies.  Her  part  as  a  spy  ap 
peared  to  her  clad  in  a  new  kind  of  shame:  the  desertion 
of  her  principles. 

Nor  did  the  officers  observe  a  man  of  thirty-five, 
wearing  the  cords  of  the  staff  and  a  general's  stars,  com 
ing  around  the  corner  of  the  house.  Marta's  feverish, 
roving  glance  had  noted  him  directly  he  was  in  sight. 
His  face  seemed  to  be  in  keeping  with  the  other  faces,  in 
the  ardor  of  a  hunt  unfinished;  hand  in  blouse  pocket, 
his  bearing  a  little  too  easy  to  be  conventionally  mili 
tary — the  same  Lanny. 


THE  RETREAT  479 

She  was  dimly  conscious  of  surprise  not  to  find  him 
changed,  perhaps  because  he  was  unaccompanied  by  a 
retinue  or  any  other  symbol  of  his  power.  He  might 
have  been  coming  to  call  on  a  Sunday  afternoon.  In 
that  first  glimpse  it  was  difficult  to  think  of  him  as  the 
commander  of  an  army.  But  that  he  was,  she  must  not 
forget.  She  was  shaken  and  trembling;  and  a  mist  rose 
before  her,  so  that  she  did  not  see  him  clearly  when, 
with  a  gesture  of  relief,  he  saw  her. 

"Lanstron!"  exclaimed  an  officer  in  the  first  explosive 
breath  of  amazement  on  recognizing  him;  then  added: 
"His  Excellency,  the  chief  of  staff !" 

But  the  one  word,  Lanstron,  had  been  enough  to  thrill 
all  the  officers  into  silence  and  ramrod  salutes.  Marta 
noted  the  deference  of  their  glances  as  they  covertly 
looked  him  over.  On  what  meat  had  our  Caesar  fed 
that  he  had  grown  so  great?  This  was  the  man  who  had 
pleaded  with  her  to  allow  a  spy  in  her  garden ;  for  whom 
she  herself  had  turned  spy.  To-morrow  his  name  would 
be  in  the  head-lines  of  every  newspaper  in  the  world.  His 
portrait  would  become  as  familiar  to  the  eyes  of  the 
world  as  that  of  the  best-advertised  of  kings.  He  was 
the  conqueror  whose  commonplace  sayings  would  be  the 
sparks  of  genius  because  the  gamble  of  war  had  gone 
his  way.  He  had  grown  so  great  by  sending  shells 
into  the  stricken  eddy  at  the  foot  of  the  garden  and 
driving  punishing  columns  against  the  retreating  masses 
in  the  defile.  The  god  in  the  car  and  of  the  machine, 
with  his  quiet  manner,  his  intellectual  features;  this  one 
time  friend,  more  subtle  in  pursuit  of  the  same  ambitions 
than  the  blind  egoism  of  Westerling!  These  officers 
and  men  and  all  officers  and  men  and  herself  were  pawns 
of  his  plans  and  his  will.  Yes,  even  herself.  Had  he 
stopped  with  the  repulse  of  the  enemy?  No.  Would 
he  stop  now?  No.  Her  disillusion  was  complete.  She 
knew  the  truth;  she  felt  it  as  steel  stiffening  against  him 
and  against  every  softer  impulse  of  her  own. 

"I  wanted  a  glimpse  of  the  front  as  well  as  the  rear," 


480  THE  LAST  SHOT 

Lanstron  remarked  in  explanation  of  his  presence  to 
the  general  of  brigade  as  he  passed  on  toward  Marta, 
who  was  thinking  that  she,  at  least,  was  not  in  awe  of 
him;  she,  at  least,  saw  clearly  and  truly  his  part. 

"Marta!     Marta!" 

Lanstron's  voice  was  tremulous,  as  if  he  were  in  awe 
of  her,  while  he  drank  in  the  fact  that  she  was  there 
before  him  at  arms'  length,  safe,  alive.  She  did  not  offer 
her  hand  in  greeting.  She  was  incapable  of  any  move 
ment,  such  was  her  emotion;  and  he,  too,  was  held  in  a 
spell,  as  the  reality  of  her,  after  all  that  had  passed, 
filled  his  eyes.  He  waited  for  her  to  speak,  but  she  was 
silent. 

"Marta — that  bandage!  You  have  been  hurt?"  he 
exclaimed. 

Unlike  Feller,  he  had  not  been  so  obsessed  with  a 
purpose  as  to  be  blind  to  externals.  Her  hostile  mood 
was  quick  to  recall  that  no  smallest  detail  of  anything 
under  his  sight  ever  escaped  him.  This  was  his  kind 
of  strength — the  strength  that  had  wrecked  Westerling 
as  a  fine,  intellectual  process.  He  could  act,  too.  In 
the  tone  of  the  question,  "You've  been  hurt?"  without 
tragic  emphasis,  was  a  twitching,  throbbing  undercur 
rent  of  horror,  which  set  the  hand  hidden  in  the  pocket 
of  his  blouse  quivering.  Why  care  if  she  were  hurt? 
Why  not  think  about  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
others  who  were  wounded.  Why  not  care  for  that  poor 
fellow  whose  ghastly  wound  kept  staring  at  her  as  he 
wrote  "Kill  me!"  on  the  wagon  body? 

"It's  the  fashion  to  be  wounded,"  she  said,  eyebrows 
lifted  and  lashes  lowered,  with  a  nervous  smile.  "I 
played  Florence  Nightingale,  the  natural  woman's  part, 
I  believe.  We  should  never  protest;  only  nurse  the 
victims  of  war.  After  helping  to  send  men  to  death  I 
went  under  fire  myself,  and — and  that  helped." 

She  could  be  kind  to  Feller  but  not  to  Lanstron.  He 
was  not  a  child.  He  was  Lanny,  who,  as  she  thought  of 
him  now,  did  nothing  except  by  calculation. 


THE  RETREAT  481 

"Yes,  that  would  help/'  he  agreed,  wincing  as  from 
a  knife  thrust. 

Her  old  taunt:  sending  men  to  death  and  taking  no 
risk  himself!  She  saw  that  he  winced;  she  realized  that 
she  had  stayed  words  that  were  about  to  come  in  a 
flood.  Then  she  seemed  to  see  him  through  new  lenses. 
He  appeared  drawn  and  pale  and  old,  as  if  he,  too,  had 
become  ashes;  anything  but  the  conqueror.  Her  feel 
ings  grew  contradictory.  Why  all  this  fencing?  How 
weak,  how  silly!  She  had  much  to  say  to  him — a  last 
appeal  to  make.  Her  throat  held  a  dry  lump.  She  was 
marshalling  her  thoughts  to  begin  when  the  brittle 
silence  was  broken  by  a  rumbling  of  voices,  a  stirring  of 
feet,  and  a  cheer. 

"Lanstron!    Lanstron!    Hurrah  for  Lanstron!" 

The  soldiers  in  the  garden  did  not  bother  with  any 
"Your  Excellency,  the  chief  of  staff"  formula  when 
word  had  been  passed  of  his  presence.  Marta  looked 
around  to  see  their  tempestuous  enthusiasm  as  they 
tossed  their  caps  in  the  air  and  sent  up  their  spontaneous 
tribute  from  the  depths  of  their  lungs.  Conqueror  and 
hero  to  the  living,  but  the  dead  could  not  speak,  whis 
pered  some  fiend  in  her  heart. 

Lanstron  uncovered  to  the  demonstration  impulsively, 
when  the  conventional  military  acknowledgment  would 
have  been  a  salute.  He  always  looked  more  like  the 
real  Lanny  to  her  with  his  forehead  bare.  It  completed 
the  ensemble  of  his  sensitive  features.  She  saw  that  he 
was  blinking  almost  boyishly  at  the  compliment  and 
noted  the  little  deprecatory  shake  of  his  head,  as  much 
as  to  say  that  they  were  making  a  mistake. 

"Thank  you!"  he  called,  and  the  cheeriness  of  his 
voice,  she  thought,  expressed  his  real  self;  the  delight  of 
victory  and  the  glowing  anticipation  of  further  victories. 

"Thank  you!"  called  a  private  with  a  big  voice. 

"Yes,  thank  you!"  repeated  some  of  the  officers  in 
quick  appreciation  of  a  compliment  as  real  as  human 
courage. 


482  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"  We're  going  to  put  your  headquarters  in  the  Grays' 
capital!"  cried  the  soldier  with  the  big  voice. 

Another  cheer  rose  at  the  suggestion. 

"You  will  follow  the  staff?"  Lanstron  called  in  sudden 
intensity. 

"Yes,  yes,  yes!"  they  shouted.  "Yes,  yes;  follow 
you!" 

"You  think  our  staff  led  you  wisely?"  he  continued 
distinctly,  slowly,  and  very  soberly.  "You  think  we 
can  continue  to  do  so?  You  trust  us?  You  trust  our 
judgment?" 

"Yes,  yes,  yes!" 

"Thank  you!"  he  said  with  a  long-drawn,  happy 
breath. 

"Thank  you  /"  they  shouted. 

He  stood  smiling  for  a  moment  in  reply  to  their  smiles; 
then,  still  smiling,  but  in  a  different  way,  he  said  to 
Marta: 

"As  you  say,  that  helps!"  with  a  nod  toward  the 
bandage  on  her  forearm  and  hurriedly  turned  away. 

She  saw  him  involuntarily  clutch  the  wrist  above  the 
pocket  of  his  blouse  to  still  the  twitching;  but  beyond 
that  there  was  no  further  sign  of  emotion  as  he  went  to 
the  telephone.  She  had  been  about  to  cry  out  her  pro 
test  against  the  continuance  of  the  war  in  the  name  of 
humanity,  of  justice,  of  every  bit  of  regard  he  had  ever 
had  for  her.  When  he  was  through  talking  she  should  go 
to  him  in  appeal — yes,  on  her  knees,  if  need  be,  before 
all  the  officers  and  soldiers — to  stop  the  killing;  but 
instantly  he  was  through  he  started  toward  the  pass 
road,  not  by  the  path  to  f.he  steps,  but  by  leaping  from 
terrace  to  terrace  and  waving  his  hand  gayly  to  the  sol 
diers  as  he  went.  The  officers  stared  at  the  sight  of  a 
chief  of  staff  breaking  away  from  his  communications 
in  this  unceremonious  fashion.  They  saw  him  secure  a 
horse  from  a  group  of  cavalry  officers  on  the  road  and 
gallop  away. 

Marta  having  been  the  object  of  Lanstron's  attention 


THE  RETREAT  483 

now  became  the  object  of  theirs.  It  was  good  to  see  a 
woman,  a  woman  of  the  Browns,  after  their  period  of 
separation  from  feminine  society.  She  found  herself 
holding  an  impromptu  reception.  She  heard  some  other 
self  answering  their  polite  questions;  while  a  fear,  a  new 
kind  of  fear,  was  taking  hold  of  her  real  self;  a  fear  inex 
plicable,  insidiously  growing.  Lanstron  was  still  in  the 
officers'  minds  after  his  strange  appearance  and  stranger 
departure.  They  began  to  talk  of  him,  and  Marta  lis 
tened. 

"He  said  something  about  being  a  free  man  now!" 

"Yes,  he  looked  as  eager  as  a  terrier  after  rats." 

"He  knows  what  he  is  doing.  He  sees  so  far  ahead  of 
what  we  are  thinking  that  it's  useless  to  guess  his  object. 
We'll  understand  when  it's  done." 

"How  little  side  he  has!  So  perfectly  simple.  He 
hardly  seems  to  realize  the  immensity  of  his  success. 
In  fact,  none  of  us  realizes  it;  it's  too  enormous,  over 
whelming,  sudden!" 

"And  no  nerves!" 

"No  nerves,  did  you  say?  There  you  are  wrong.  Did 
you  see  that  hand  twitching  in  his  pocket?  Of  course, 
you've  heard  about  the  hand?  Why,  he's  a  bundle  of 
nerve- wires  held  in  control;  a  man  of  the  age;  master 
of  his  own  machine,  therefore,  able  to  master  the  ma 
chine  of  an  army." 

Of  course,  they  guessed  nothing  of  Marta's  part  in  his 
success.  The  very  things  they  were  saying  about  him 
built  up  a  figure  of  the  type  whose  character  she  had 
keenly  resented  a  few  minutes  before. 

"But,  Miss  Galland,  you  seem  to  know  him  far  better 
than  we.  This  is  not  news  to  you,"  remarked  the  bri 
gade  commander. 

"Yes,  I  saw  the  accident  of  his  first  flight  when  his 
hand  was  injured,"  she  said,  and  winced  with  horror. 
Never  had  the  picture  of  him  as  he  rose  from  the  wreck 
appeared  so  distinct.  She  could  see  every  detail  of  his 
looks;  feel  his  twinges  of  pain  while  he  smiled.  Was 


484  THE  LAST   SHOT 

the  revelation  the  more  vivid  because  it  had  not  once 
occurred  to  her  since  the  war  began?  It  shut  out  the 
presence  of  the  officers;  she  no  longer  heard  what  they 
were  saying.  Black  fear  was  enveloping  her.  Vaguely 
she  understood  that  they  were  looking  away  at  some 
thing.  She  heard  the  roar  of  artillery  not  far  distant 
and  followed  their  gaze  toward  the  knoll  where  Dellarme's 
men  had  received  their  baptism  of  fire,  now  under  a 
canopy  of  shrapnel  smoke. 

"That's  about  their  last  stand  in  the  tangent,  their 
last  snarl  on  our  soil/'  remarked  the  brigade  com 
mander. 

"  And  we're  raining  shells  on  it ! "  said  his  aide.  "  With 
our  glasses  we'll  be  able  to  watch  the  infantry  go  in." 

"Yes,  very  well." 

"We're  all  used  to  how  it  feels,  now  we'll  see  how  it 
looks  at  a  distance,"  piped  one  of  the  soldiers. 

Not  until  he  had  shouted  to  them  did  they  notice  a 
division  staff-officer  who  had  come  up  from  the  road. 
He  had  a  piece  of  astounding  news  to  impart  before  he 
mentioned  official  business. 

"What  do  you  think  of  this?"  he  cried.  "Nothing 
could  stop  him !  Lanstron — yes,  Lanstron  has  gone  into 
that  charge  with  the  African  Braves!" 

In  these  days,  when  units  of  a  vast  army  in  the  same 
uniform,  drilled  in  the  same  way,  had  become  inter 
changeable  parts  of  a  machine,  the  African  Braves  still 
kept  regimental  fame.  They  had  guarded  the  stretches 
of  hot  sand  in  one  of  the  desert  African  colonies  of  the 
Browns;  and  they  had  served  in  the  jungle  in  the  region 
of  Bodlapoo,  which,  by  the  way,  was  nominally  the  cause 
of  the  war.  They  had  fought  Mohammedan  fanatics 
and  black  savages.  It  did  not  matter  much  to  them 
when  they  died;  now  as  well  as  ever.  If  they  had 
mothers  or  sisters  they  were  the  secrets  of  each  man's 
heart.  The  scapegrace  youth,  the  stranded  man  of 
thirty  who  would  forget  his  past,  the  born  adventurer, 


THE  RETREAT  485 

the  renegade  come  a  cropper,  the  gentleman  who  had 
gambled,  the  remittance  man  whose  remittance  had 
stopped,  the  peasant's  son  who  had  run  away  from  home, 
criminals  and  dreamers,  some  minor  poets,  some  fairly 
good  actors,  scholarly  fellows  who  chanted  the  "Odyssey." 
and  both  oath-ripping  and  taciturn,  quiet-mannered 
fellows  who  could  neither  read  nor  write  found  a  home 
in  the  African  Braves'  muster-roll.  Their  spirit  of  corps 
had  a  dervish  fatalism.  They  had  begged  to  have  a 
share  in  the  war  and  Par  tow  had  consented.  In  the 
night  after  their  long  journey,  while  Westerling's  ram  was 
getting  its  death-blow,  they  had  detrained  and  started 
for  the  front.  But  the  Grays  were  going  as  fast  as  the 
Braves,  and  they  had  been  unable  to  get  into  action. 

"Wait  for  us!  We  want  to  be  in  it!"  cried  their  im 
patience.  "We'll  show  you  how  they  fight  in  Africa! 
Way  for  us!" 

"Give  them  a  chance!"  said  Lanstron. 

This  order  a  general  of  corps  repeated  to  a  general  of 
division,  who  repeated  it  to  a  general  of  brigade. 

"Give  them  a  chance!    Give  them  a  chance!" 

Reserves  along  the  route  of  their  advance  knew  them 
at  a  glance  by  their  uniform,  their  Indian  tan,  and  their 
jaunty  swagger  and  gave  a  cheer  as  they  passed.  They 
touched  the  chord  of  romance  in  the  hearts  of  officers, 
who  regarded  them  as  an  archaic  survival  which  senti 
ment  permitted  in  an  isolated  instance  in  Africa,  where 
it  excellently  served.  And  officers  looked  at  one  another 
and  shook  their  heads  knowingly,  out  of  the  drear,  hard 
experience  in  spade  approaches,  when  they  thought  of 
that  brilliant  uniform  as  a  target  and  of  frontier  tactics 
against  massed  infantry  and  gun-fire. 

"Once  will  be  enough,"  said  the  cynical.  "There 
won't  be  many  left  to  tell  the  tale!" 

And  the  African  Braves  knew  how  the  army  felt. 
They  had  a  reputation  out  of  Africa  to  sustain,  this  band 
of  exotics  among  the  millions  of  home-trained  comrades. 
They  didn't  quite  believe  in  all  this  machine  business. 


486  THE  LAST  SHOT 

Down  the  slopes  with  their  veteran  stride,  loose-limbed 
and  rhythmic,  they  went,  past  the  line  of  the  Galland 
house,  with  no  fighting  in  sight.  What  if  they  had  to 
return  to  Africa  without  firing  a  shot?  The  lugubrious 
prospect  saddened  them.  They  felt  that  a  battle  should 
be  ordered  on  their  account. 

"You  will  take  that  regiment's  place  and  it  will  fall 
back  for  support,  while  you  storm  the  knoll  beyond!" 
said  the  brigade  commander,  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"Is  it  much  of  a  job,  do  you  think?"  asked  the  colonel 
of  the  Braves. 

He  had  two  fingers'  length  of  service  colors  on  his 
blouse.  Lean  he  was  and  bony-jawed,  with  deep-set 
eyes.  He  loved  every  mother's  son  of  the  Braves,  from 
illiterate  to  the  chanter  of  the  "Odyssey";  from  peas 
ant's  son  to  penniless  nobleman,  and  thought  any  one 
of  his  privates  rather  superior  to  a  home  brigade  com 
mander. 

"A  pretty  good  deal.  I  think  the  Grays'll  make  a 
snappy  resistance,"  said  the  brigade  commander  hon 
estly.  "The  way  we  feel  them  out,  they're  getting  back 
their  wind,  and  for  the  first  time  we'll  be  fighting  them 
up-hill.  Yes,  there's  a  sting  in  a  retreating  army's  tail 
when  it  gets  over  its  demoralization." 

"Good!"  observed  the  colonel  as  if  he  had  a  sweet 
taste  in  his  mouth. 

"And  if  you  find  it  too  stiff,"  the  brigade  commander 
went  on,  "why,  I've  seasoned  veterans  back  of  you  who 
will  press  in  to  your  support." 

"Veterans,  you  say,  and  seasoned?  I  have  some  of 
my  own,  too!  Thank  you!  Thank  you  most  kindly!" 
said  the  colonel,  saluting  stiffly,  with  a  twist  to  the 
corner  of  his  mouth.  "When  we  need  their  help  it  will 
be  to  bury  our  dead,"  he  added.  "Can  we  do  it  alone? 
Will  we?" 

He  passed  these  inquiries  along  the  line,  which  rose 
to  the  suggestion  with  different  kinds  of  oaths  and  jests 
and  grins  and  grim  whistles.  The  scholar  suddenly 


THE  RETREAT  487 

transferred  his  affections  from  the  Greeks'  phalanx  to 
the  Roman  legions  and  began  with  the  first  verse  of 
Virgil's  "^Eneid."  He  always  made  the  change  when 
action  was  near.  "The  Greeks  for  poetry  and  the 
Romans  for  war!"  he  declared,  and  could  argue  his  com 
pany  to  sleep  if  anybody  disputed  him. 

"I  want  to  be  in  one  fight.  I  haven't  been  under  fire 
in  the  whole  war,"  Lanstron  explained  to  the  colonel, 
who  understood  precisely  the  feeling. 

"Lanstron  is  with  us!  The  chief  of  staff  is  watching 
us!"  ran  the  whisper  from  flank  to  flank  of  the  Braves. 
It  was  not  wonderful  to  them  that  he  should  be  there. 
This  complicated  business  of  running  a  war  over  a  tele 
phone  was  not  in  the  ken  of  their  calculations.  The 
colonel  was  with  them,  so  all  the  generals  ought  to  be. 
"We'll  show  Lanstron ! "  determined  the  Braves.  " We'll 
show  him  how  we  fight  in  Africa!" 

"With  the  first  rush  you  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  valley; 
with  the  second,  take  the  knoll! "  Such  were  the  colonel's 
simple  tactics.  "But  stop  on  the  top  of  the  knoll. 
Though  we'd  like  to  take  the  capital  this  afternoon,  it's 
against  orders." 

Lanstron,  dropping  into  place  in  the  line,  felt  as  if  he 
were  about  to  renew  his  youth.  He  had  the  elation  of 
his  early  aeroplane  flights,  when  he  was  likely  to  be 
hung  on  a  church  steeple.  Now  he  was  not  sending 
men  to  death;  he  was  having  his  personal  fling.  It 
was  all  very  simple  beside  sitting  at  a  desk  with  battle 
raging  in  the  distance.  He  dodged  at  the  first  bullet 
that  whistled  near  his  head  and  looked  rather  sheepishly 
at  the  man  next  him,  who  was  grinning. 

"Lots  of  fellows  do  that  with  the  first  one,  no  matter 
how  many  times  they've  been  under  fire,"  said  the  com 
rade.  "But  if  they  do  it  with  the  second  one — "  He 
dropped  the  corners  of  his  mouth  with  a  significance  that 
required  no  further  comment  to  express  his  views  on 
that  kind  of  a  soldier. 

"I  shan't!"  said  Lanstron;  and  he  kept  his  word. 


488  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"I  knew  by  the  cut  of  your  jib  you  wouldn't!"  ob 
served  the  Brave,  speaking  not  to  the  chief  of  staff  but 
to  the  man.  What  were  chiefs  of  staff  to  him?  Every 
body  on  the  firing-line  was  simply  another  Brave. 

Lanstron  liked  the  compliment.  It  pleased  him  better 
than  those  endowing  him  with  military  genius.  It  was 
free  of  rank  and  etiquette  and  selfishness. 

Of  such  stuff  were  the  Braves  as  Caesar's  veterans 
who  walloped  the  Belgae,  the  adventurous  ruffians  of 
Cortez,  the  swashbucklers  who  fought  in  Flanders,  the 
followers  of  Bonnie  Prince  Charlie,  and  the  regulars  of 
the  American  Indian  campaigns.  When  they  rose  to 
the  charge  with  a  yell,  in  a  wave  of  scarlet  and  blue, 
flashing  with  brass  buttons,  their  silken  flag  rippling  in 
the  front  rank,  they  made  a  picture  to  please  the  ro 
mantic  taste.  Here  on  the  brown  background  of  the 
commonplace  three  millions  of  moderns  was  a  patch  of 
the  color  and  glamour  that  story-tellers,  poets,  artists, 
and  moving-picture  men  would  choose  as  the  theme  of 
real  military  glory. 

Intoxication  of  all  the  senses,  of  muscles  and  nerves, 
with  the  mesmerism  of  movement  and  burning  desire 
which  calls  the  imagination  of  youth  to  arms!  The 
supreme  moment  of  fury  and  splendid  rush,  which  be 
comes  the  recollection  to  the  survivor  to  be  told  from 
the  knee  to  future  generations  in  a  way  to  make  small 
boys  love  to  play  with  soldiers !  These  men  knew  noth 
ing  except  that  they  had  legs  and  that  ahead  was  a  goal. 
Oaths  and  laughter  were  mingled  in  their  souls;  the 
energy  of  a  delirium  sped  their  steps.  They  were  so 
many  human  missiles  fired  by  an  impulse,  with  too  much 
initial  velocity  to  stop  at  the  bottom  of  the  valley  as  the 
colonel  had  directed.  Lord,  no!  Let's  have  the  thing 
over  with,  bit  in  teeth!  The  common  instinct  of  the 
living,  who  neither  saw  nor  thought  of  those  who  fell, 
swept  them  up  the  slope.  Every  man  who  survived  was 
the  whole  regiment  in  himself;  its  pride,  its  gallantry, 
its  inheritance  in  his  keeping. 


THE  RETREAT  489 

" Fiends  of  hell  and  angels  of  heaven!  We're  here 
and  we  did  it  alone!"  gasped  the  winded,  ragged  line 
that  reached  the  crest. 

"I  thought  they  would!"  said  the  brigade  commander, 
who  had  watched  the  charge  through  his  glasses  from  an 
eminence.  "  But  at  what  a  cost !  It  was  lucky  for  them 
that  it  was  only  a  rear-guard  resistance.  However,  it 
certainly  thrills  the  imagination  and  it  will  be  a  good 
thing  for  Brown  prestige  in  Africa." 

"Why?"  Marta  heard  the  officers  around  her  asking 
after  their  exclamations  of  amazement  at  the  news  that 
Lanstron  was  going  in  the  charge.  "Why  should  the 
chief  of  staff  risk  his  life  in  this  fashion?" 

Marta  knew.  All  her  taunts  about  sending  others  to 
death  from  his  office  chair,  uttered  as  the  fugitive 
sarcasm  of  a  mood,  recurred  in  the  merciless  hammer- 
beat  of  recollection.  For  a  moment  she  was  aghast, 
speechless.  Then  the  officers,  occupied  with  the  start 
ling  news,  heard  a  voice,  wrenched  from  a  dry  throat 
in  anguish,  saying: 

"The  telephone!  Try  to  reach  him!  Tell  him  he 
must  not!" 

"We  can  hardly  say  'must  not'  to  a  chief  of  staff," 
said  the  general  automatically. 

"Tell  him  I  ask  him  not  to!  Try  to  reach  him — try — 
you  can  try!" 

"Yes,  yes!  Certainly!"  exclaimed  the  general,  turn 
ing  to  the  telephone  operator. 

He  had  seen  now  what  the  younger  men  had  seen  at  a 
glance.  They  were  recalling  Lanstron's  relief  at  seeing 
her;  how  he  had  passed  them  by  to  speak  to  her;  the 
intensity  of  the  two  in  their  almost  wordless  meeting. 
Her  bloodless  lips,  the  imploring  passion  in  her  eyes,  her 
quivering  impatience  told  the  rest. 

"Division  headquarters!"  called  the  operator. 
"They're  getting  brigade  headquarters,"  he  added 
while  he  waited  in  silence.  "Brigade  headquarters  says 


4QO  THE  LAST  SHOT 

the  Braves  have  no  wire.  It's  too  late.  The  charge  is 
starting." 

"So  it  is!"  cried  one  of  the  subalterns.  "Look! 
Look!" 

Marta  looked  toward  the  rising  ground  this  side  of 
the  knoll  in  time  to  see  bayonets  flash  in  the  waning 
afternoon  sunlight  and  disappear  as  they  descended  the 
slope. 

"There!  They're  up  on  the  other  slope  without 
stopping!"  exclaimed  the  general.  "Quick!  Don't  you 
want  to  see?"  He  offered  his  glasses  to  Marta. 

"No,  I  can  see  well  enough,"  she  murmured,  though 
the  landscape  was  moving  before  her  eyes  in  giddy 
waves. 

"The  madness  of  it!  The  whole  slope  is  peppered 
with  the  fallen!" 

"What  a  cost!  Magnificent,  but  not  war.  Carrying 
their  flag  in  the  good  old  way,  right  at  the  front!" 

"Heavens!     I  hope  they  do  it!" 

"The  flag's  down!" 

"Another  man  has  it — it's  up!" 

"Now— now— splendid!     They're  in!" 

"So  they  are!    And  the  flag,  too!" 

"Yes,  what's  left  are  in!" 

"And  Lanstron  was  there — in  that!" 

"Whatif- 

"Yes,  the  chief  of  staff,  the  head  of  the  army,  in  an 
affair  like  that!" 

"The  mind  of  the  army — the  mind  that  was  to  direct 
our  advance!" 

"When  all  the  honors  of  the  world  are  his!" 

Their  words  were  acid- tipped  needles  knitting  back 
and  forth  through  Marta's  brain.  Was  Lanny  one  of 
those  black  specks  that  peppered  the  slope?  Was  he? 
Was  he? 

"Telephone  and — and  see  if  Lanny  is — is  killed!"  she 
begged. 

She  knew  not  how  she  uttered  that  monstrous  word 


THE  RETREAT  491 

killed.  But  utter  it  she  did  in  its  naked  terror.  Now 
she  knew  a  simpler  feeling  than  that  of  the  grand  sym 
pathy  of  the  dreamer  with  the  horrors  of  war  as  a  whole. 
She  knew  the  dumb,  helpless  suspense  of  the  womenfolk 
remaining  at  home  watching  for  the  casualty  lists  that 
Westerling  had  suppressed.  What  mattered  policies  of 
statesmen  and  generals,  propagandas  and  tactics,  to 
them?  The  concern  of  each  wife  or  sweetheart  was  with 
one — one  of  the  millions  who  was  greater  to  the  wife 
or  the  sweetheart  than  all  the  millions.  Marta  was  not 
thinking  of  sending  thousands  to  death.  Had  she  sent 
him  to  death?  The  agony  of  waiting,  waiting  there 
among  these  strangers,  waiting  for  that  little  instru 
ment  at  the  end  of  a  wire  to  say  whether  or  not  he  were 
alive,  became  insupportable. 

"I'll  go — I'll  go  out  there  where  he  is!"  she  said  in 
coherently,  still  looking  toward  the  knoll  with  glazed 
eyes.  She  thought  she  was  walking  fast  as  she  started 
for  the  garden  gate,  but  really  she  was  going  slowly, 
stumblingly. 

"I  think  you  had  better  stop  her  if  you  can,"  said 
the  general  to  his  aide. 

The  aide  overtook  her  at  the  gate. 

"We  shall  know  about  His  Excellency  before  you  can 
find  out  for  yourself,"  he  said;  and,  young  himself,  he 
could  put  the  sympathy  of  youth  with  romance  into  his 
tone.  "You  might  miss  the  road,  even  miss  him,  when 
he  was  without  a  scratch,  and  be  for  hours  in  ignorance," 
he  explained.  "In  a  few  minutes  we  ought  to  have 
word." 

Marta  sank  down  weakly  on  the  tongue  of  a  wagon, 
overturned  against  the  garden  wall  in  the  melee  of  the 
retreat,  and  leaned  her  shoulder  on  the  wheel  for  sup 
port. 

"If  the  women  of  the  Grays  waited  four  weeks,"  she 
said  with  an  effort  at  stoicism,  "then  I  ought  to  be  able 
to  wait  a  few  minutes." 

"Depend  on  me.    I'll  bring  news  as  soon  as  there  is 


492  THE  LAST  SHOT 

any,"  the  aide  concluded,  and,  seeing  that  she  wished  to 
be  alone,  he  left  her. 

For  the  first  time  she  had  real  oblivion  from  the  mem 
ory  of  her  deceit  of  Westerling,  the  oblivion  of  drear, 
heart-pulling  suspense.  All  the  good  times,  the  sweetly 
companionable  times,  she  and  Lanny  had  had  together; 
all  his  flashes  of  courtship,  his  outburst  in  their  last 
interview  in  the  arbor,  when  she  had  told  him  that  if 
she  found  that  she  wanted  to  come  to  him  she  would 
come  in  a  flame,  passed  in  review  under  the  hard  light 
of  her  petty  ironies  and  sarcasms,  which  had  the  false 
ring  of  coquetry  to  her  now,  genuine  as  they  had  been 
at  the  time.  Through  her  varying  moods  she  had  really 
loved  him,  and  the  thing  that  had  slumbered  in  her 
became  the  drier  fuel  for  the  flame — perhaps  too  late. 

Her  thought,  her  feeling  was  as  if  he  were  not  chief 
of  staff,  but  a  private  soldier,  and  she  were  not  a  woman 
who  had  girdled  the  world  and  puckered  her  brow  over 
the  solution  of  problems,  but  a  provincial  girl  who  had 
never  been  outside  her  village — his  sweetheart.  All 
questions  of  the  army  following  up  its  victory,  of  his 
responsibilities  and  her  fears  that  he  would  go  on  with 
conquest,  faded  into  the  fact  of  life — his  life,  as  the  most 
precious  thing  in  the  world  to  her.  For  him,  yes,  for 
him  she  had  played  the  spy,  as  that  village  girl  would 
for  her  lover,  thinking  of  warm  embraces;  for  him  she 
had  kept  steady  under  the  strain. 

Without  him — what  then?  It  seemed  that  the  fatality 
that  had  let  him  escape  miraculously  from  the  aeroplane 
accident,  made  him  chief  of  staff,  and  brought  him  vic 
tory,  might  well  choose  to  ring  down  the  curtain  of 
destiny  for  him  in  the  charge  that  drove  the  last  foot 
of  the  invader  off  the  soil  of  the  Browns.  ...  A  voice 
was  calling.  .  .  .  She  heard  it  hazily,  with  a  sudden 
access  of  giddy  fear,  before  it  became  a  cheerful,  clarion 
cry  that  seemed  to  be  repeating  a  message  that  had 
already  been  spoken  without  her  understanding  it. 

"He's  safe,  safe,  safe,  Miss  Galland!    He  was  not  hit-1 


THE  RETREAT  493 

He  is  on  his  way  back  and  ought  to  be  here  very  soon!" 

She  heard  herself  saying  "Thank  you!"  But -that 
was  not  for  some  time.  The  aide  was  already  gone. 
He  had  had  his  thanks  in  the  effect  of  the  news,  which 
made  him  think  that  a  chief  of  staff  should  not  receive 
congratulations  for  victory  alone. 

Lanny  would  return  through  the  garden.  She  re 
mained  leaning  against  the  wagon  body,  still  faint  from 
happiness,  waiting  for  him.  She  was  drawing  deeper 
and  longer  breaths  that  were  velvety  with  the  glow  of 
sunshine.  A  flame,  the  flame  that  Lanny  had  desired, 
of  many  gentle  yet  passionate  tongues,  leaping  hither 
and  thither  in  glad  freedom,  was  in  possession  of  her 
being.  When  his  figure  appeared  out  of  the  darkness 
the  flame  swept  her  to  her  feet  and  toward  him.  Though 
he  might  reject  her  he  should  know  that  she  loved  him; 
this  glad  thing,  after  all  the  shame  she  had  endured, 
she  could  confess  triumphantly. 

But  she  stopped  short  under  the  whip  of  conscience. 
Where  was  her  courage?  Where  her  sense  of  duty? 
What  right  had  she,  who  had  played  such  a  horrible 
part,  to  think  of  self?  There  were  other  sweethearts 
with  lovers  alive  who  might  be  dead  on  the  morrow  if 
war  continued.  The  flame  sank  to  a  live  coal  in  her 
secret  heart.  Another  passion  possessed  her  as  she 
seized  Lanstron's  hand  in  both  her  own. 

"Lanny,  listen!  Not  the  sound  of  a  shot — for  the 
first  time  since  the  war  began!  Oh,  the  blessed  silence  I 
It's  peace,  peace — isn't  it  to  be  peace?"  As  they  as 
cended  the  steps  she  was  pouring  out  a  flood  of  broken, 
feverish  sentences  which  permitted  of  no  interruption. 
"You  kept  on  fighting  to-day,  but  you  won't  to-morrow, 
will  you?  It  isn't  I  who  plead — it's  the  women,  more 
women  than  there  are  men  in  the  army,  who  want  you 
to  stop  now!  Can't  you  hear  them?  Can't  you  see 
them?" 

In  the  fervor  of  appeal,  before  she  realized  his  pur 
pose,  they  were  on  the  veranda  and  at  the  door  of  the 


494  THE  LAST  SHOT 

dining-room,  where  the  Brown  staff  was  gathered  around 
the  table. 

"I  still  rely  on  you  to  help  me,  Marta!"  he  whispered 
as  he  stood  to  one  side  for  her  to  enter. 


XLVI 
THE  LAST  SHOT 

"Miss  GALLAND!" 

Blinking  as  she  came  out  of  the  darkness  into  the 
bright  light,  with  a  lock  of  her  dew-sprinkled  dark  hair 
free  and  brushing  her  flushed  cheek,  Marta  saw  the 
division  chiefs  of  the  Browns,  after  their  start  when 
Lanstron  spoke  her  name,  all  stand  at  the  salute,  look 
ing  at  her  rather  than  at  him.  The  reality  in  the  flesh 
of  the  woman  who  had  been  a  comrade  in  service, 
sacrificing  her  sensibilities  for  their  cause,  appealed  to 
them  as  a  true  likeness  of  their  conceptions  of  her.  In 
their  eyes  she  might  read  the  finest  thing  that  can  pass 
from  man's  to  woman's  or  from  man's  to  man's.  These 
were  the  strong  men  of  her  people  who  had  driven  the 
burglar  from  her  house  with  the  sword  of  justice.  Their 
tribute  had  the  steadfast  loyalty  of  soldiers  who  were 
craving  to  do  anything  in  the  world  that  she  might 
ask,  whether  to  go  on  their  knees  to  her  or  to  kill  dragons 
for  her. 

"I  may  come  in?"  she  asked. 

"Who  if  not  you  is  entitled  to  the  privilege  of  the 
staff  council?"  exclaimed  the  vice-chief. 

The  others  did  not  propose  to  let  him  do  all  the 
honors.  Each  murmured  words  of  welcome  on  his  own 
account. 

"We  are  here,  thanks  to  you!" 

"And,  thanks  to  you,  our  flag  will  float  over  the  Gray 
range!" 

She  must  be  tired,  was  their  next  thought.  Four  or 
five  of  them  hurried  to  place -a  chair  for  her,  the  vice- 

495 


4g6  THE  LAST  SHOT 

chief  winning  over  his  rivals,  more  through  the  exercise 
of  the  rights  of  rank  than  by  any  superior  alacrity. 

"You  are  appointed  actual  chief  of  staff  and  a  field- 
marshal  ! "  said  the  vice-chief  to  Lanstron.  "  The  premier 
says  that  every  honor  the  nation  can  bestow  is  yours. 
The  capital  is  mad.  The  crowds  are  crying:  'On  to  the 
Gray  capital!'  To-morrow  is  to  be  a  public  holiday  and 
they  are  calling  it  Lanstron  Day.  The  thing  was  so 
sudden  that  the  speculators  who  depressed  our  securi 
ties  in  the  world's  markets  have  got  their  due — ruin! 
And  we  ought  to  get  an  indemnity  that  will  pay  the 
cost  of  the  war." 

Seated  at  one  side,  Marta  could  watch  all  that  passed, 
herself  unobserved.  She  noted  a  touch  of  color  come 
to  Lanstron's  cheeks  as  he  made  a  little  shrug  of  pro 
test. 

"It  never  rains  but  it  pours!"  he  said.  "We  were  all 
just  as  able  and  loyal  yesterday  as  to-day  when  we 
find  ourselves  heroic.  We  owe  our  victory  to  Partow's 
plans,  to  the  staff's  industry,  the  spirit  of  the  people  and 
the  army,  and —  He  threw  a  happy  smile  toward 
Marta. 

"Perhaps  it  ought  to  be  Galland  Day  rather  than 
Lanstron  Day,"  remarked  the  vice-chief.  "The  crowds 
at  the  capital  when  they  know  her  part  might  cheer 
her  more  frenziedly  than  you,  general." 

"No,  no — please,  no!"  Marta  was  hectic  in  alarm 
and  protest. 

"Your  secret  is  ours!  It's  in  the  family!"  the  vice- 
chief  hastened  to  assure  her.  Where  could  a  secret  be 
safe  if  not  in  the  keeping  of  an  army  staff  ? 

"That  was  almost  like  teasing!"  she  exclaimed  with 
a  laugh  of  relief. 

"We're  all  in  pretty  good  humor,"  remarked  the  vice- 
chief.  He  seemed  to  have  a  pleasant  taste  in  his  mouth 
that  would  last  him  for  life. 

Then  Marta  saw  their  faces  grow  businesslike  and 
keen,  as  they  gathered  around  the  table,  with  Lanstron 


THE  LAST  SHOT  497 

at  the  head.  They  were  oblivious  of  her  presence,  im 
mured  in  a  man's  world  of  war. 

"Your  orders  were  obeyed.  We  have  not  passed  a 
single  white  post  yet!"  said  the  vice-chief  impatiently. 
"As  the  Grays  never  expected  to  take  the  defensive, 
their  fortresses  are  inferior.  Every  hour  we  wait  means 
more  time  for  them  to  fortify,  more  time  to  recover  from 
their  demoralization.  Our  dirigibles  having  command  of 
the  air — we  had  a  wireless  from  one  reporting  all  clear 
half-way  to  the  Gray  capital — why,  we  shall  know  their 
concentrations  while  they  are  ignorant  of  ours.  It's 
the  nation's  great  opportunity  to  gain  enough  prov 
inces  to  even  the  balance  of  population  with  the  Grays. 
With  the  unremitting  offensive,  blow  on  blow,  using  the 
spirit  of  our  men  to  drive  in  mass  attacks  at  the  right 
points,  the  Gray  range  is  ours!" 

Marta  scanned  the  faces  of  the  staff  for  some  sign  of 
dissent  only  to  find  nothing  but  the  ardor  of  victory 
calling  for  more  victory,  which  reflected  the  feeling  of 
the  coursing  crowds  in  the  capital.  Though  Lanny 
wished  to  stop  the  war,  he  was  only  a  chip  on  the  crest 
of  a  wave.  Public  opinion,  which  had  made  him  an  idol, 
would  discard  him  as  soon  as  he  ceased  to  be  a  hero  in 
the  likeness  of  its  desires.  She  saw  him  aloof  as  the 
others,  in  preoccupation,  bent  over  the  map  outlining 
the  plan  of  attack  that  they  had  worked  out  while  await 
ing  their  chief's  return  from  the  charge.  He  was 
taking  a  paper  from  his  pocket  and  looking  from  one 
to  another  of  his  colleagues  studiously;  and  she  was 
conscious  of  that  determination  in  his  smile  which  she 
had  first  seen  when  he  rose  from  the  wreck  of  his  plane. 

"This  is  from  Partow:  a  message  for  you  and  the 
nation!"  he  announced,  as  he  spread  a  few  thin,  type 
written  pages  out  on  the  table.  "I  was  under  promise 
never  to  reveal  its  contents  unless  our  army  drove  the 
Grays  back  across  the  frontier.  The  original  is  in  the 
staff  vaults.  I  have  carried  this  copy  with  me." 

At  the  mention  in  an  arresting  tone  of  that  name  of  the 


498  THE  LAST  SHOT 

dead  chief,  to  which  the  day's  events  had  given  the 
prestige  of  one  of  the  heroes  of  old,  there  was  grave 
attention. 

"I  think  we  have  practically  agreed  that  the  two  in 
dividuals  who  were  invaluable  to  our  cause  were  Partow 
and  Miss  Galland,"  Lanstron  remarked  tentatively.  He 
waited  for  a  reply.  It  was  apparent  that  he  was  laying 
a  foundation  before  he  went  any  further. 

''Certainly!"  said  the  vice-chief. 

"And  you!"  put  in  another  officer,  which  brought  a 
chorus  of  assent. 

"No,  not  I — only  these  two!"  Lanstron  replied. 
"Or,  I,  too,  if  you  prefer.  It  little  matters.  The  thing 
is  that  I  am  under  a  promise  to  both,  which  I  shall  re 
spect.  He  organized  and  labored  for  the  same  purpose 
that  she  played  the  spy.  When  we  sent  the  troops  for 
ward  in  a  counter-attack  and  pursuit  to  clear  our  soil  of 
the  Grays;  when  I  stopped  them  at  the  frontier — both 
were  according  to  Partow's  plan.  He  had  a  plan  and  a 
dream,  this  wonderful  old  man  who  made  us  all  seem 
primary  pupils  in  the  art  of  war." 

Could  this  be  that  terrible  Partow,  a  stroke  of  whose 
pencil  had  made  the  Galland  house  an  inferno?  Marta 
wondered  as  Lanstron  read  his  message — the  message  out 
of  the  real  heart  of  the  man,  throbbing  with  the  power 
of  his  great  brain.  His  plan  was  to  hold  the  Grays  to 
stalemate;  to  force  them  to  desist  after  they  had  bat 
tered  their  battalions  to  pieces  against  the  Brown  for 
tifications.  His  dream  was  the  thing  that  had  hap 
pened — that  an  opportunity  would  come  to  pursue  a 
broken  machine  in  a  bold  stroke  of  the  offensive. 

"I  would  want  to  be  a  hero  of  our  people  for  only  one 
aim,  to  be  able  to  stop  our  army  at  the  frontier,"  he  had 
written.  "Then  they  might  drive  me  forth  heaped  with 
obloquy,  if  they  chose.  I  should  like  to  see  the  Grays 
demoralized,  beaten,  ready  to  sue  for  peace,  the  better 
to  prove  my  point  that  we  should  ask  only  for  what  is 
ours  and  that  our  strength  was  only  for  the  purpose  of 


THE  LAST  SHOT  499 

holding  what  is  ours.  Then  we  should  lay  up  no  legacy 
of  revenge  in  their  hearts.  They  could  never  have 
cause  to  attack  again.  Civilization  would  have  ad 
vanced  another  step." 

Lanstron  continued  to  read  to  the  amazed  staff,  for 
Partow's  message  had  looked  far  into  the  future.  Then 
there  was  a  P.  S.,  written  after  the  war  had  begun,  on 
the  evening  of  the  day  that  Marta  had  gone  from  tea  on 
the  veranda  with  Westerling  to  the  telephone,  in  the 
impulse  of  her  new  purpose. 

"I  begin  to  believe  in  that  dream,"  he  wrote.  "I 
begin  to  believe  that  the  chance  for  the  offensive  will 
come,  now  that  my  colleague,  Miss  Galland,  in  the  name 
of  peace  has  turned  practical.  There  is  nothing  like 
mixing  a  little  practice  in  your  dreams  while  the  world 
is  still  well  this  side  of  Utopia,  as  the  head  on  my  old 
behemoth  of  a  body  well  knows.  She  had  the  right  idea 
with  her  school.  The  oath  so  completely  expressed  my 
ideas — the  result  of  all  my  thinking — that  I  had  a  twinge 
of  literary  jealousy.  My  boy,  if  you  do  reach  the  fron 
tier,  in  pursuit  of  a  broken  army,  and  you  do  not  keep 
faith  with  my  dream  and  with  her  ideals,  then  you  will 
get  a  lesson  that  will  last  you  forever  at  the  foot  of  the 
Gray  range.  But  I  do  not  think  so  badly  as  that  of  you 
or  of  my  judgment  of  men." 

"Lanny!    Lanny!" 

The  dignity  of  a  staff  council  could  not  restrain  Marta. 
Her  emotion  must  have  action.  She  sprang  to  his  side 
and  seized  his  hand,  her  exultation  mixed  with  penitence 
over  the  way  she  had  wronged  him  and  Partow.  Their 
self-contained  purpose  had  been  the  same  as  hers  and 
they  had  worked  with  a  soldier's  fortitude,  while  she 
had  worked  with  whims  and  impulses.  She  bent  over 
him  with  gratitude  and  praise  and  a  plea  for  forgive 
ness  in  her  eyes,  submerging  the  thing  which  he  sought 
in  them.  He  flushed  boyishly  in  happy  embarrassment, 
incapable  of  words  for  an  instant;  and  silently  the  staff 
looked  on. 


500  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"And  I  agree  with  Partow,"  Lanstron  went  on,  "that 
we  cannot  take  the  range.  The  Grays  still  have  numbers 
equal  to  ours.  It  is  they,  now,  who  will  be  singing 
'  God  with  us!'  with  their  backs  against  the  wall.  With 
Partow's  goes  my  own  appeal  to  the  army  and  the 
nation;  and  I  shall  keep  faith  with  Partow,  with  Miss 
Galland,  and  with  my  own  ideas,  if  the  government 
orders  the  army  to  advance,  by  resigning  as  chief  of 
staff — my  work  finished." 

Westerling  and  his  aide  and  valet,  inquiring  their  way 
as  strangers,  found  the  new  staff  headquarters  of  the 
Grays  established  in  an  army  building,  where  Bouchard 
had  been  assigned  to  trivial  duties,  back  of  the  Gray 
range.  As  their  former  chief  entered  a  room  in  the  dis 
order  of  maps  and  packing-cases,  the  staff-officers  rose 
from  their  work  to  stand  at  salute  like  stone  images, 
in  respect  to  a  field-marshal's  rank.  There  was  no  word 
of  greeting  but  a  telling  silence  before  Turcas  spoke. 
His  voice  had  lost  its  parchment  crinkle  and  become 
natural.  The  blue  veins  on  his  bulging  temples  were  a 
little  more  pronounced,  his  thin  features  a  little  more 
pinched,  but  otherwise  he  was  unchanged  and  he  seemed 
equal  to  another  strain  as  heavy  as  the  one  he  had  under 
gone. 

"We  have  a  new  government,  a  new  premier,"  he 
said.  "The  old  premier  was  killed  by  a  shot  from  a 
crowd  that  he  was  addressing  from  the  balcony  of  the 
palace.  After  this,  the  capital  became  quieter.  As  we 
get  in  touch  with  the  divisions,  we  find  the  army  in 
better  shape  than  we  had  feared  it  would  be.  There 
is  a  recovery  of  spirit,  owing  to  our  being  on  our  own 
soil." 

"Yes,"  replied  Westerling,  drowning  in  their  stares 
and  grasping  at  a  straw.  "Only  a  panic,  as  I  said. 
If—  "  his  voice  rising  hoarsely  and  catching  in  rage. 

"We  have  a  new  government,  a  new  premier!"  Tur 
cas  repeated,  with  firm,  methodical  politeness.  Wester- 


THE  LAST  SHOT  501 

ling  looking  from  one  face  to  another  with  filmy  eyes, 
lowered  them  before  Bouchard.  "There's  a  room  ready 
for  Your  Excellency  up-stairs,"  Turcas  continued.  " The 
orderly  will  show  you  the  way." 

Now  Westerling  grasped  the  fact  that  he  was  no  longer 
chief  of  staff.  He  drew  himself  up  in  a  desperate  attempt 
at  dignity;  the  staff  saluted  again,  and,  uncertainly,  he 
followed  the  orderly,  with  the  aide  and  valet  still  in 
loyal  attendance. 

Meanwhile,  the  aerial  scouts  of  the  Grays  were  puz 
zled  by  a  moving  cloud  on  the  landscape  several  miles 
away.  It  filled  the  highway  and  overflowed  into  the 
fields,  without  military  form:  women  and  men  of  every 
age  except  the  fighting  age,  marching  together  in  a 
sinister  militancy  of  purpose. 

"Bring  the  children,  too ! "  cried  the  leaders.  "They've 
more  right  to  be  heard  than  any  of  us." 

From  such  a  nucleus  it  seemed  that  the  whole  popu 
lation  of  the  land  might  be  set  in  motion  by  a  common 
passion.  Neither  the  coming  of  darkness  nor  a  chill 
rain  kept  recruits  from  village  and  farmhouse  from 
dropping  their  tasks  and  leaving  meals  unfinished  to 
swell  the  ranks.  What  Westerling  had  called  the  bovine 
public  with  a  parrot's  head  had  become  a  lion. 

"There's  no  use  of  giving  any  orders  to  stop  this 
flood,"  said  an  officer  who  had  ridden  fast  to  warn  the 
Gray  staff.  "The  police  simply  watch  it  go  by.  Sol 
diers  ready  to  lay  down  their  lives  to  hold  the  range  give 
it  Godspeed  when  they  learn  what  it  wants.  Both  are 
citizens  before  they  are  soldiers  or  policemen.  The 
thing  is  as  elemental  as  an  earthquake  or  a  tidal  wave." 

"Public  opinion!  Unanimous  public  opinion!  Noth 
ing  can  stop  that!"  exclaimed  Turcas  in  dry  fatalism. 
"You  will  inform  His  Excellency,"  he  said  to  Wester- 
ling's  aide,  "that  they  are  coming  for  him— all  the 
people  are  coming,  and  we  are  powerless.  And— 
Even  Turcas's  calmness  failed  him  and  his  voice  caught 
in  a  convulsive  swallow. 


502  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"I — I  understand!"  the  aide  said  thickly,  and  went 
up-stairs. 

He  had  suffered  worse  than  in  seeing  his  chief  beaten; 
but  even  in  disillusion  he  was  loyal.  He  was  back  im 
mediately,  and  paused  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  stonily, 
in  the  attitude  of  one  who  listens  for  something;  while 
the  tramp  of  thousands  of  feet  came  pressing  in  upon  all 
sides. 

As  one  great,  high-pitched  voice,  the  crowd  shouted 
its  merciless  demand;  and  eyes  eager  with  the  hunt  as 
those  of  soldiers  in  pursuit  gleamed  through  the  win 
dows  out  of  the  darkness.  Bouchard,  hawk-eyed,  stern, 
was  standing  by  the  street  door.  His  mediaeval  spirit 
revolted  at  the  thought  of  any  kind  of  a  mob.  For  such 
demonstrations  he  had  a  single  simple  prescription — 
cold  lead. 

"We  cannot  strike  the  overwhelming  spirit  which  we 
would  forge  into  the  nation's  defence,"  said  Turcas. 

The  door  was  flung  open  and  Bouchard  drew  back 
abruptly  at  the  sight;  he  drew  back  in  fear  of  his  own 
nature.  If  any  one  should  so  much  as  lay  hands  on  him 
when  he  was  in  uniform,  a  sword  thrust  would  resent 
the  insult  to  his  officer's  honor;  and  even  he  did  not  want 
to  strike  grandfathers  and  children  and  mothers. 

Two  figures  were  in  the  doorway:  a  heavy-set  market 
woman  with  a  fringe  of  down  on  her  lip  and  a  cadaverous, 
tidily  dressed  old  man,  who  might  have  been  a  superan 
nuated  schoolmaster,  with  a  bronze  cross  won  in  the 
war  of  forty  years  ago  on  his  breast  and  his  eyes  burning 
with  the  youthful  fire  of  Grandfather  Fragini's. 

"They  got  the  premier  in  the  capital.  We've  come  for 
Westerling!  We  want  to  know  what  he  did  with  our 
sons!  We  want  to  know  why  he  was  beaten!"  cried  the 
market  woman. 

"Yes,"  said  the  veteran.  "We  want  him  to  explain 
his  lies.  Why  did  he  keep  the  truth  from  us?  We  were 
ready  to  fight,  but  not  to  be  treated  like  babies.  This 
is  the  twentieth  century!" 


THE  LAST  SHOT  503 

"  We  want  Westerling !  Tell  Westerling  to  come  out ! ' ' 
rose  the  impatient  shouts  behind  the  two  figures  in  the 
doorway. 

"You  are  sure  that  he  has  one?"  whispered  Turcas 
to  Westerling's  aide. 

"Yes,"  was  the  choking  answer — "yes.  It  is  better 
than  that" — with  a  glance  toward  the  mob.  "I  left 
my  own  on  the  table." 

"We  can't  save  him!    We  shall  have  to  let  them— 

Turcas's  voice  was  drowned  by  a  great  roar  of  cries, 
with  no  word  except  "Westerling"  distinguishable,  that 
pierced  every  crack  of  the  house.  A  wave  of  movement 
starting  from  the  rear  drove  the  veteran  and  the  market 
woman  and  a  dozen  others  through  the  doorway  toward 
the  stairs.  Then  the  sound  of  a  shot  was  heard  overhead. 

"The  man  you  seek  is  dead!"  said  Turcas,  stepping 
in  front  of  the  crowd,  his  features  unrelenting  in  author 
ity.  "Now,  go  back  to  your  work  and  leave  us  to  ours. " 

"I  understand,  sir,"  said  the  veteran.  "WeVe  no 
argument  with  you." 

"Yes!"  agreed  the  market  woman.  "But  if  you  ever 
leave  this  range  alive  we  shall  have  one.  So,  you  stay! " 

Looking  at  the  bronze  cross  on  the  veteran's  faded 
coat,  the  staff  saluted;  for  the  cross,  though  it  were  hung 
on  rags,  wherever  it  went  was  entitled  by  custom  to  the 
salute  of  officers  and  "present  arms"  by  sentries. 

As  news  of  the  shot  travelled  among  the  people  the 
cries  dropped  into  long-drawn  breaths  of  thirst  satiated. 
Their  mission  was  fulfilled.  The  tramp  of  their  feet  as 
they  dispersed  homeward  mingled  with  the  urging  of 
officers  to  weary  men  and  the  rumbling  of  wagons  and 
guns  and  the  sound  of  pick  and  spade  on  the  range, 
where  torches  flickered  over  the  heads  of  the  working 
parties.  But  no  other  shot  after  the  one  heard  from 
Westerling's  room  was  fired.  The  Grays  were  at  grip 
with  the  fact  of  disaster.  An  angry,  wounded  animal 
that  had  failed  of  i  :s  kill  was  facing  around  at  the  mouth 
of  its  lair  for  its  ovn  life. 


504  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"We're  tired--we're  all  tired;  but  keep  up — keep  up!" 
urged  the  officers.  "We  have  a  new  chief  of  staff  and 
there  will  be  no  more  purposeless  sacrifices.  It's  their 
turn  at  the  charge;  ours  to  hold.  We'll  give  them  some 
of  the  medicine  they've  been  giving  us.  God  with  us! 
Our  backs  against  the  wall!" 

After  Lanstron's  announcement  to  the  Brown  staff  of 
his  decision  not  to  cross  the  frontier,  there  was  a  rest 
less  movement  in  the  chairs  around  the  table,  and  the 
grimaces  on  most  of  the  faces  were  those  with  which  a 
practical  man  regards  a  Utopian  proposal.  The  vice- 
chief  was  drumming  on  the  table  edge  and  looking 
steadily  at  a  point  in  front  of  his  fingers.  If  Lanstron 
resigned  he  became  chief. 

"Partow  might  have  this  dream  before  he  won,  but 
would  he  now?"  asked  the  vice-chief.  "No.  He  would 
go  on!" 

"Yes,"  said  another  officer.  "The  world  will  ridi 
cule  the  suggestion;  our  people  will  overwhelm  us  with 
their  anger.  The  Grays  will  take  it  for  a  sign  of  weak 
ness." 

"Not  if  we  put  the  situation  rightly  to  them,"  an 
swered  Lanstron.  "Not  if  we  go  to  them  as  brave  ad 
versary  to  brave  adversary,  in  a  fair  spirit." 

"We  can — we  shall  take  the  range!"  the  vice-chief 
went  on  in  a  burst  of  rigid  conviction  when  he  saw  that 
opinion  was  with  him.  "Nothing  can  stop  this  army 
now!"  He  struck  the  table  edge  with  his  fist,  his 
shoulders  stiffening. 

"Please — please,  don't!"  implored  Mar ta  softly.  "It 
sounds  so  like  Wester  ling!" 

The  vice-chief  started  as  if  he  had  received  a  sharp 
pin-prick.  His  shoulders  unconsciously  relaxed.  He  be 
gan  a  fresh  study  of  a  certain  point  on  the  table  top. 
Lanstron,  looking  first  at  one  and  then  at  another,  spoke 
again,  his  words  as  measured  as  they  ever  had  been  in 
military  discussion  and  eloquent.  He  began  outlining 


THE  LAST  SHOT  505 

his  own  message  which  would  go  with  Partow's  to  the 
premier,  to  the  nation,  to  every  regiment  of  the  Browns, 
to  the  Grays,  to  the  world.  He  set  forth  why  the 
Browns,  after  tasting  the  courage  of  the  Grays,  should 
realize  that  they  could  not  take  their  range.  Partow 
had  not  taught  him  to  put  himself  in  other  men's  places 
in  vain.  The  boy  who  had  kept  up  his  friendship  with 
engine-drivers  after  he  was  an  officer  knew  how  to  sink 
the  plummet  into  human  emotions.  He  reminded  the 
Brown  soldiers  that  there  had  been  a  providential  an 
swer  to  the  call  of  "God  with  us!"  he  reminded  the 
people  of  the  lives  that  would  be  lost  to  no  end  but  to 
engender  hatred;  he  begged  the  army  and  the  people  not 
to  break  faith  with  that  principle  of  "Not  for  theirs, 
but  for  ours,"  which  had  been  their  strength. 

"I  should  like  you  all  to  sign  it — to  make  it  simply 
the  old  form  of  'the  staff  has  the  honor  to  report,'"  he 
said  finally. 

There  was  a  hush  as  he  finished — the  hush  of  a  deep 
impression  when  one  man  waits  for  another  to  speak. 
All  were  looking  at  him  except  the  vice-chief,  who  was 
still  staring  at  the  table  as  if  he  had  heard  nothing. 
Yet  every  word  was  etched  on  his  mind.  The  man 
whose  name  was  the  symbol  of  victory  to  the  soldiers, 
who  would  be  more  than  ever  a  hero  as  the  news  of  his 
charge  with  the  African  Braves  travelled  along  the  lines, 
would  go  on  record  to  his  soldiers  as  saying  that  they 
could  not  take  the  Gray  range.  This  was  a  handicap 
that  the  vice-chief  did  not  care  to  accept;  and  he  knew 
how  to  turn  a  phrase  as  well  as  to  make  a  soldierly  de 
cision.  He  looked  up  smilingly  to  Marta. 

"I  have  decided  that  I  had  rather  not  be  a  Wester- 
ling,  Miss  Galland,"  he  said.  "We'll  make  it  unani 
mous.  And  you,"  he  burst  out  to  Lanstron — "you 
legatee  of  old  Partow;  I've  always  said  that  he  was  the 
biggest  man  of  our  time.  He  has  proved  it  by  catching 
the  spirit  of  our  time  and  incarnating  it." 

Vaguely,  in  the  whirl  of  her  joy,  Marta  heard  the  cho- 


5o6  THE  LAST  SHOT 

rus  of  assent  as  the  officers  sprang  to  their  feet  in  the 
elation  of  being  at  one  with  their  chief  again.  Lan- 
stron  caught  her  arm,  fearing  that  she  was  going  to  fall, 
but  a  burning  question  rose  in  her  mind  to  steady  her. 

"Then  my  shame — my  sending  men  to  slaughter — 
my  sacrifice  was  not  in  vain?"  she  exclaimed. 

Misery  crept  into  her  eyes;  she  seemed  to  be  seeing 
some  horror  that  would  always  haunt  her.  These 
businesslike  men  of  the  council  were  touched  by  a  fresh 
understanding  of  her  and  of  the  reason  for  her  success, 
which  had  demanded  something  more  than  human  art- 
something  pure  and  fine  and  fearless  underneath  art. 
They  sought  to  win  one  more  victory  that  should  kill 
her  memory  of  what  she  had  done. 

"Miss  Galland,"  said  the  vice-chief,  " Westerling's 
fate,  whatever  it  is,  would  have  been  the  same.  He 
could  never  have  taken  our  range.  He  would  have  only 
more  lives  to  answer  for,  and  Partow's  dream  could  not 
have  come  true." 

"You  think  that — you — all  of  you?"  she  asked. 

"All!    All!"  they  said  together. 

"Yes,  but  for  you  the  losses  on  both  sides  would  have 
been  greater — hundreds  of  thousands  greater,"  concluded 
the  vice-chief.  "And  to-night  I  think  you  helped  me  to 
see  right;  you  struck  a  light  in  my  mind  when  I  was 
about  to  forget  the  law  of  service." 

"You  see,  then,  you  did  hasten  the  end,  Marta,"  said 
Lanstron. 

"Yes,  I  do  see,  Lanny!"  she  whispered.  She  was 
weak  now,  with  no  spur  to  her  energy  except  her  happi 
ness  as  she  leaned  on  his  arm.  Then  he  felt  an  impulsive 
pressure  as  she  looked  up  at  him.  "The  law  of  service, 
as  you  say!"  she  said,  turning  to  the  vice-chief.  "Isn't 
that  the  finest  law  of  all?  Couldn't  I  help  you  with 
the  appeal?  Perhaps  I  might  put  in  it  a  thought  to 
reach  the  women.  They  are  a  part  of  public  opinion." 

"I  was  going  to  suggest  it,  but  you  seemed  so  weary 
that  I  hadn't  the  heart,"  said  Lanstron. 


THE  LAST  SHOT  507 

"Just  the  thing — the  mothers,  wives,  and  sweethearts ! " 
declared  the  vice-chief. 

"I'm  not  a  bit  tired  now!"  Marta  assured  them 
brightly.  "I'm  fresh  for  the  fight  again." 

"Another  thing/'  added  Lanstron,  "we  ought  to  have 
the  backing  of  the  corps  and  division  commanders." 

"Precisely,"  agreed  the  vice-chief.  "We  want  to 
make  sure  of  this  thing.  We'd  look  silly  if  the  old  pre 
mier  ordered  the  army  on  and  left  us  high  and  dry; 
and  it  would  mean  certain  disaster.  Shall  I  get  them 
on  the  telephone?" 

"Yes,"  said  Lanstron. 

It  was  long  after  midnight  when  the  collaborative 
composition  of  that  famous  despatch  was  finished. 

"Now  I'm  really  tired,  Lanny,"  said  Marta  as  she 
arose  from  the  table.  "I  can  think  only  of  prayers — 
joyful  little  prayers  of  thanks  rising  to  the  stars." 

She  slipped  her  arm  through  his.  As  they  moved 
toward  the  door  the  chiefs  of  divisions,  keeping  to  the 
etiquette  that  best  expressed  their  soldierly  respect, 
saluted  her. 

"If  this  were  told,  few  would  believe  it;  nor  would 
they  believe  many  other  things  in  the  inner  history  of 
armies  which  are  forever  held  secret,"  thought  the  vice- 
chief. 

Outside,  the  stars  were  twinkling  to  acknowledge  those 
little  prayers  of  thanks,  and  the  night  was  sweet  and 
peaceful,  while  the  army  slept. 


XLVII 
THE  PEACE  OF  WISDOM 

THE  sea  of  people  packed  in  the  great  square  of  the 
Brown  capital  made  a  roar  like  the  thunder  of  waves 
against  a  breakwater  at  sight  of  a  white  spot  on  a  back 
ground  of  gray  stone,  which  was  the  head  of  an  eminent 
statesman. 

"It  looks  as  if  our  government  would  last  the  week 
out,"  the  premier  chuckled  as  he  returned  to  his  col 
leagues  at  the  cabinet  table. 

As  yet  only  the  brief  bulletins  whose  publication  in 
the  newspapers  had  aroused  the  public  to  a  frenzy  had 
been  received.  The  cabinet,  as  eager  for  details  as  the 
press,  had  remained  up,  awaiting  a  fuller  official  ac 
count. 

"We  have  a  long  communication  in  preparation,"  the 
staff  had  telegraphed.  "Meanwhile,  the  following  is 
submitted." 

"Good  Heavens!  It's  not  from  the  army!  It's  from 
the  grave!"  exclaimed  the  premier  as  he  read  the  first 
paragraphs  of  Partow's  message.  "Of  all  the  concealed 
dynamite  ever!"  he  gasped  as  he  grasped  the  full  mean 
ing  of  the  document,  that  piece  of  news,  as  staggering  as 
the  victory  itself,  that  had  lain  in  the  staff  vaults  for 
years.  "Well,  we  needn't  give  it  out  to  the  press;  at 
least,  not  until  after  mature  consideration,"  he  declared 
when  they  had  reached  the  end  of  Partow's  appeal. 
"Now  we'll  hear  what  the  staff  has  to  say  for  itself  after 
gratifying  the  wish  of  a  dead  man,"  he  added  as  a 
messenger  gave  him  another  sheet. 

"The  staff,  in  loyalty  to  its  dead  leader  who  made 

508 


THE  PEACE  OF  WISDOM  509 

victory  possible,  and  in  loyalty  to  the  principles  of  de 
fence  for  which  the  army  fought,  begs  to  say  to  the 
nation — 

It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  this  despatch 
concluded  with  "We  heartily  agree  with  the  foregoing," 
and  the  cabinet  read  the  names  of  all  the  general  staff 
and  the  corps  and  division  commanders.  Coursing 
crowds  in  the  streets  were  still  shouting  hoarsely  and 
sometimes  drunkenly:  "On  to  the  Gray  capital!  Noth 
ing  can  stop  us  now!"  The  premier  tried  to  imagine 
what  a  sea  of  faces  in  the  great  square  would  look  like 
in  a  rage.  He  was  between  the  people  in  a  passion  for 
retribution  and  a  headless  army  that  was  supposed  to 
charge  across  the  frontier  at  dawn. 

"The  thing  is  sheer  madness!"  he  cried.  "It's  in 
subordination!  I'll  have  it  suppressed!  The  army  must 
go  on  to  gratify  public  demand.  I'll  show  the  staff  that 
they  are  not  in  the  saddle.  They'll  obey  orders!" 

He  tried  to  get  Lanstron  on  the  long  distance. 

"Sorry,  but  the  chief  has  retired,"  answered  the  officer 
on  duty  sleepily.  "In  fact,  all  the  rest  of  the  staff  have, 
with  orders  that  they  are  not  to  be  disturbed  before  ten." 

"Tell  them  that  the  premier,  the  head  of  the  govern 
ment,  their  commander,  is  speaking!" 

"Yes,  sir.  But  the  staff  were  up  all  last  night  and 
most  of  to-night,  not  to  mention  a  pretty  busy  day. 
When  they  had  finished  their  report  to  you,  sir,  they  were 
utterly  done  up.  Yes,  the  orders  not  to  disturb  them 
are  quite  positive,  and  as  a  junior  I  could  not  do  so 
except  by  their  orders  as  superiors.  The  chief,  before 
retiring,  however,  repeated  to  me,  in  case  any  inquiry 
came  from  you,  sir,  that  there  was  nothing  he  could  add 
to  the  staff's  message  to  the  nation  and  the  army.  It 
is  to  be  given  to  the  soldiers  the  first  thing  in  the  morning, 
and  he  will  let  you  know  how  they  regard  it." 

"Confound  these  machine  minds  that  spring  their 
surprises  as  fully  executed  plans! "  exclaimed  the  premier. 

"It's  true — Partow  and  the  staff  have  covered  every- 


Sio  THE  LAST  SHOT 

thing — met  every  argument.  There  is  nothing  more  for 
them  to  say,"  said  the  foreign  minister. 

"But  what  about  the  indemnity?"  demanded  the  fi 
nance  minister.  He  was  thinking  of  victory  in  the  form 
of  piles  of  gold  in  the  treasury. 

This  question,  too,  was  answered. 

"War  has  never  brought  prosperity,"  Partow  had 
written.  "Its  purpose  is  to  destroy,  and  destruction 
can  never  be  construction.  The  conclusion  of  a  war  has 
often  assured  a  period  of  peace;  and  peace  gave  the  im 
petus  of  prosperity  attributed  to  war.  A  man  is  strong 
in  what  he  achieves,  not  through  the  gifts  he  receives 
or  the  goods  he  steals.  Indemnity  will  not  raise  another 
blade  of  wheat  in  our  land.  To  take  it  from  a  beaten 
man  will  foster  in  him  the  desire  to  beat  his  adversary 
in  turn  and  recover  the  amount  and  more.  Then  we 
shall  have  the  apprehension  of  war  always  in  the  air, 
and  soon  another  war  and  more  destruction.  Remove 
the  danger  of  a  European  cataclysm,  and  any  sum  ex 
torted  from  the  Grays  becomes  paltry  beside  the  wealth 
that  peace  will  create.  An  indemnity  makes  the  pur 
pose  of  the  courage  of  the  Grays  in  their  assaults  and 
of  the  Browns  in  their  resistance  that  of  the  burglar  and 
the  looter.  There  is  no  money  value  to  a  human  life 
when  it  is  your  own;  and  our  soldiers  gave  their  lives. 
Do  not  cheapen  their  service." 

"Considering  the  part  that  we  played  at  The  Hague," 
observed  the  foreign  minister,  "it  would  be  rather  in 
consistent  for  us  not  to— 

"There  is  only  one  thing  to  do.  Lanstron  has  got 
us!"  replied  the  premier.  "We  must  jump  in  at  the 
head  of  the  procession  and  receive  the  mud  or  the  bou 
quets,  as  it  happens." 

With  Partow's  and  the  staff's  appeals  went  an  equally 
earnest  one  from  the  premier  and  his  cabinet.  Natu 
rally,  the  noisy  element  of  the  cities  was  the  first  to  find 
words.  It  shouted  in  rising  anger  that  Lanstron  had 
betrayed  the  nation.  Army  officers  whom  Partow  had 


THE  PEACE  OF  WISDOM  511 

retired  for  leisurely  habits  said  that  he  and  Lanstron 
had  struck  at  their  own  calling.  But  the  average  man 
and  woman,  in  a  daze  from  the  shock  of  the  appeals 
after  a  night's  celebration,  were  reading  and  wondering 
and  asking  their  neighbors'  opinions.  If  not  in  Par- 
tow's  then  in  the  staff's  message  they  found  the  mirror 
that  set  their  own  ethical  professions  staring  at  them. 

Before  they  had  made  up  their  minds  the  correspon 
dents  at  the  front  had  set  the  wires  singing  to  the  even 
ing  editions;  for  Lanstron  had  directed  that  they  be 
given  the  run  of  the  army's  lines  at  daybreak.  They 
told  of  soldiers  awakening  after  the  debauch  of  yes 
terday's  fighting,  normal  and  rested,  glowing  with  the 
security  of  possession  of  the  frontier  and  responding  to 
their  leaders'  sentiment;  of  officers  of  the  type  favored 
by  Partow  who  would  bring  the  industry  that  commands 
respect  to  any  calling,  taking  Lanstron's  views  as  worthy 
of  their  profession;  of  that  irrepressible  poet  laureate  of 
the  soldiers,  Captain  Stransky,  I.C.  (iron  cross),  break 
ing  forth  in  a  new  song  to  an  old  tune,  expressing  his 
brotherhood  ideas  in  a  "  We-have-ours-let-them-keep- 
theirs"  chorus  that  was  spreading  from  regiment  to  reg 
iment. 

This  left  the  retired  officers  to  grumble  in  their  cor 
ners  that  war  was  no  longer  a  gentleman's  vocation, 
and  silenced  the  protests  of  their  natural  ally  in  the  busi 
ness  of  making  war,  the  noisy  element,  which  promptly 
adapted  itself  to  a  new  fashion  in  the  relation  of  nations. 
Again  the  great  square  was  packed  and  again  a  wave- 
like  roar  of  cheers  greeted  the  white  speck  of  an  eminent 
statesman's  head.  All  the  ideas  that  had  been  foment 
ing  in  the  minds  of  a  people  for  a  generation  became 
a  living  force  of  action  to  break  through  the  precedents 
born  of  provincial  passion  with  a  new  precedent;  for  the 
power  of  public  opinion  can  be  as  swift  in  its  revolutions 
as  decisive  victories  at  arms.  The  world  at  large,  after 
rubbing  its  forehead  and  readjusting  its  eye-glasses  and 
clearing  its  throat,  exclaimed: 


5i2  THE  LAST  SHOT 

"Why  not?  Isn't  that  what  we  have  all  been  think 
ing  and  desiring?  Only  nobody  knew  how  or  where  to 
begin." 

The  premier  of  the  Browns  found  himself  talking  over 
the  long  distance  to  the  premier  of  the  Grays  in  as 
neighborly  a  fashion  as  if  they  had  adjoining  estates 
and  were  arranging  a  matter  of  community  interest. 

"You  have  been  so  fine  in  waiving  an  indemnity," 
said  the  premier  of  the  Grays,  "that  Turcas  suggests  we 
pay  for  all  the  damage  done  to  property  on  your  side 
by  our  invasion.  I'm  sure  our  people  will  rise  to  the 
suggestion.  Their  mood  has  overwhelmed  every  pre 
conceived  notion  of  mine.  In  place  of  the  old  suspicion 
that  a  Brown  could  do  nothing  except  with  a  selfish 
motive  is  the  desire  to  be  as  fair  as  the  Browns.  And 
the  practical  way  the  people  look  at  it  makes  me  think 
that  it  will  be  enduring." 

"I  think  so,  for  the  same  reason,"  responded  the 
premier  of  the  Browns.  "They  say  it  is  good  business. 
It  means  prosperity  and  progress  for  both  countries." 

"After  all,  a  soldier  comes  out  the  hero  of  the  great 
peace  movement,"  concluded  the  premier  of  the  Grays. 
"A  soldier  took  the  tricks  with  our  own  cards.  Old 
Partow  was  the  greatest  statesman  of  us  all." 

"No  doubt  of  that! "  agreed  the  premier  of  the  Browns. 
"It's  a  sentiment  to  which  every  premier  of  ours  who 
ever  tried  to  down  him  would  have  readily  subscribed!" 

The  every-day  statesman  smiles  when  he  sees  the 
people  smile  and  grows  angry  when  they  grow  angry. 
Now  and  then  appears  an  inscrutable  genius  who  finds 
out  what  is  brewing  in  their  brains  and  brings  it  to  a 
head.  He  is  the  epoch  maker.  Such  an  one  was  that 
little  Corsican,  who  gave  a  stagnant  pool  the  storm  it 
needed,  until  he  became  overfed  and  mistook  his  ambition 
for  a  continuation  of  his  youthful  prescience. 

Marta  had  yet  to  bear  the  shock  of  Westerling's 
death.  After  learning  the  manner  of  it  she  went  to  her 


THE  PEACE  OF  WISDOM  513 

room,  where  she  spent  a  haunted,  sleepless  night.  The 
morning  found  her  still  tortured,  by  her  visualization  of 
the  picture  of  him,  irresolute  as  the  mob  pressed  around 
the  Gray  headquarters. 

"  It  is  as  if  I  had  murdered  him!  "  she  said.  "  I  let 
him  make  love  to  me — I  let  my  hand  remain  in  his 
once — but  that  was  all,  Lanny.  I — I  couldn't  have 
borne  any  more.  Yet  that  was  enough — enough!  " 

"  But  we  know  now,  Marta,"  Lanstron  pleaded, "  that 
the  premier  of  the  Grays  held  Westerling  to  a  compact 
that  he  should  not  return  alive  if  he  lost.  He  could  not 
have  won,  even  though  you  had  not  helped  us  against 
him.  He  would  only  have  lost  more  lives  and  brought 
still  greater  indignation  on  his  head.  His  fate  was  in 
evitable — and  he  was  a  soldier." 

But  his  reasoning  only  racked  her  with  a  shudder. 

"If  he  had  only  died  fighting! "  Marta  replied. 
"  He  died  like  a  rat  in  a  trap  and  I — I  set  the  trap!  " 

"  No,  destiny  set  it!  "  put  in  Mrs.  Galland. 

Lanstron  dropped  down  beside  Marta's  chair. 

"  Yes,  destiny  set  it,"  he  said,  imploringly, 

"  Just  as  it  set  your  part  for  you.  And,  Marta," 
Mrs.  Galland  went  on  gently,  with  what  Marta  had 
once  called  the  wisdom  of  mothers,  "  Lanny  lives  and 
lives  for  you.  Your  destiny  is  life  and  to  make  the 
most  of  life,  as  you  always  have.  Isn't  it,  Marta?  " 

"Yes,"  she  breathed  after  a  pause,  in  conviction, 
as  she  pressed  her  mother's  hands.  "  Yes,  you  have  a 
gift  of  making  things  simple  and  clear." 

Then  she  looked  up  to  Lanstron  and  the  flame  in  her 
eyes,  whose  leaping,  spontaneous  passion  he  already 
knew,  held  something  of  the  eternal,  as  her  arms  crept 
around  his  neck. 

"You  are  life,  Lanny!  You  are  the  destiny  of  to 
day  and  to-morrow! " 

Though  it  was  very  late  autumn  now,  such  was  the 
warmth  of  the  sun  that,  with  a  wrap,  Mrs.  Galland  was 


514  THE  LAST  SHOT 

sitting  on  the  veranda.  She  was  content — too  content 
to  go  to  town.  As  she  had  said  to  Marta,  no  doubt  it 
would  be  a  wonderful  sight,  but  she  had  never  cared  for 
public  celebrations  since  she  had  lost  her  husband. 
She  could  get  all  the  joys  of  peace  she  wanted  looking 
at  the  garden  and  the  landscape;  and  it  did  not  matter 
at  all  now  if  Marta  were  twenty-seven,  or  even  if  she 
were  thirty  or  thirty  odd. 

For  the  last  week  the  people  of  La  Tir  had  been  re 
turning  to  their  homes,  and  with  the  early  morning 
those  from  the  country  districts  had  come  swarming  in 
for  the  great  day.  Faintly  she  heard  the  cheers  of  the 
crowds  pouring  toward  the  frontier — cheers  for  the  Gray 
premier  and  cheers  for  Lanstron  and  for  Turcas  as  they 
gathered  for  a  purpose  which  looked  further  ahead  than 
the  mere  ratification  of  the  very  simple  terms  of  peace 
that  left  the  white  posts  where  they  were  before  the 
war. 

"I  would  rather  meet  you  here  than  on  your  range," 
said  Lanstron  to  Turcas. 

"You  certainly  find  me  in  a  more  genial  frame  of 
mind  than  you  would  have  if  you  had  met  me  there. 
And  I  am  very  delighted  that  things  have  turned  out 
as  they  have/'  replied  Turcas.  As  soldiers  of  a  common 
type  of  efficiency,  who  understood  each  other,  they 
might  exchange  ideas. 

Marta  in  the  family  carriage,  surrounded  by  her  chil 
dren,  looked  on.  Hugo  Mallin,  who  had  suggested  get 
ting  acquainted  with  the  Browns  in  a  common  manoeu 
vre,  witnessed  his  dream  come  true  in  miniature.  His 
sturdy  sweetheart  had  become  a  heroine  of  the  home 
town  since  the  newspapers  had  published  the  whole  story 
of  her  lover's  insubordination,  and  how  he  had  stood  at 
the  white  posts  rallying  stragglers,  which  appealed  to 
the  sentiment  of  the  moment.  People  pointed  her  out 
as  an  example  of  the  loyalty  of  conviction.  His  father 
and  mother,  far  from  hiding  their  faces  in  shame,  carried 
their  heads  high  in  parental  distinction. 


THE  PEACE  OF  WISDOM  515 

There  was  nothing  unfamiliar  to  the  student  of  human 
nature  in  campaigns,  which  many  historians  overlook, 
so  keen  are  they  to  get  their  dates  and  circumstantial 
details  correct,  in  the  way  that  the  Gray  and  the  Brown 
veterans  fraternized  in  groups,  crossing  and  recrossing 
the  frontier  line  as  they  labored  with  each  other's 
tongues.  This  frequently  comes  with  peace,  when  the 
adversaries  have  been  of  the  same  metal  and  standards 
of  civilization.  The  new  thing  was  the  theme  of  their 
talk.  They  had  little  to  say  of  the  campaign  itself. 
They  drew  the  curtain  on  the  horrors  for  purposes  of 
personal  glory  and  raised  it  only  to  point  a  lesson  that 
should  prevent  another  war.  No,  they  would  never  try 
killing  again.  That  sort  of  business  was  buried  as  se 
curely  as  Westerling's  ambition.  Partow's  name  kept 
recurring;  one  of  the  paragraphs  of  his  message,  showing 
how  clearly  he  had  foreseen  the  effect  on  sentiment,  was 
frequently  quoted: 

"We  have  had  war's  test;  who  wants  it  repeated? 
We  have  kept  peace  with  force  between  these  two  brave, 
high-spirited  peoples;  why  not  have  the  peace  of  wisdom? 
Former  sacrifices  of  blood  have  been  for  the  glory  of 
victory  of  one  country  over  another.  Why  not  consider 
this  one  a  sacrifice  in  common  for  the  glory  of  a  victory 
in  common?  If  the  leaders  of  the  great  nations  that 
boast  their  civilization  cannot  find  a  way  to  a  permanent 
understanding  among  themselves,  while  they  stand  for 
the  peace  of  the  world,  then  the  very  civilization  which 
produced  the  resolute,  intelligent  courage  and  the  arms 
and  organization  that  we  have  seen  in  being  is  a  failure. 
Surely,  the  brains  that  directed  these  great  armies  ought 
to  be  equal  to  some  practical  plan.  Meet  the  conditions 
of  international  distrust,  if  you  will,  by  establishing  a 
neutral  zone  ten  miles  broad  along  the  frontier  free  of 
all  defences.  Let  the  Grays  guard  five  miles  of  it  on 
the  Brown  side  and  the  Browns  five  miles  on  the  Gray 
side,  as  insurance  against  surprise  or  the  ambitions  of 
demagogues.  What  an  example  for  those  other  nations 


516  THE  LAST  SHOT 

beyond  Europe,  as  yet  lacking  your  organization  and 
progress,  whom  you  must  aid  and  direct!  What  a  re 
turn  to  you  in  both  moral  and  commercial  profit !  Keep 
armed,  in  reason;  keep  strong,  but  only  as  an  interna 
tional  police  force." 

The  keen  air  had  given  Mrs.  Galland  the  best  appe 
tite  she  had  had  for  months.  She  was  beginning  to 
fear  a  late  luncheon,  when  Marta  appeared  at  the  garden 
gate  with  the  man  whose  legions  had  followed  in  the 
footsteps  of  other  winning  armies  through  the  pass. 
He  was  happier  than  the  old  baron,  when  plundering  was 
at  its  best,  or  the  Roman  commander  with  Rome  cheer 
ing  him.  Mrs.  Galland's  smile  had  the  bliss  of  family 
paradise  regained  as  she  watched  them  in  a  swinging 
hand-clasp  coming  up  the  terrace  steps.  The  picture 
they  made  might  have  seemed  effeminate  to  the  baron. 
Yet  we  are  not  so  sure  of  that.  Marta  had  always 
insisted  that  he  was  perfectly  human,  too,  according 
to  his  lights.  Possibly  the  Roman  commander  swung 
hands  with  a  Roman  girl  as  soon  as  he  could  get  away 
from  the  crowd  around  his  triumphal  car. 

" Mother,  it's  a  shame  that  you  missed  it!"  Marta 
called.  "Why,  there  are  so  many  great  things  in  the 
air  that  it  makes  me  feel  a  conservative!  They're  actu 
ally  discussing  disarmament  and  an  international  peace 
pact  for  twenty  years,"  she  continued,  "that  nothing 
can  break.  Partow's  statue  in  our  capital  is  to  have 
not  victory,  but  peace  on  the  fourth  face  of  the  plinth. 
They're  even  talking  of  putting  up  a  statue  to  him  in 
the  Gray  capital.  Why  not?  The  Grays  have  a  statue 
of  one  of  our  great  poets  and  we  of  one  of  their  great 
scientists.  And,  to  be  as  polite  as  they,  we  propose 
to  honor  one  of  their  old  generals  who  was  almost  as 
generous  in  victory  as  Partow.  What  a  session  of  the 
school  next  Sunday!  We're  going  to  have  the  chil 
dren  from  both  La  Tir  and  South  La  Tir !  .  .  .  The  only 
trouble  is  that  if  Lanny  keeps  on  giving  Partow  all  the 


THE  PEACE  OF  WISDOM  517 

credit  for  the  good  work  he  will  succeed  in  making  every 
body  think  that  every  time  he  winked  after  Partow's 
death  it  was  according  to  Partow's  directions  for  the 
conduct  of  the  war!" 

"Then  I  shall  have  the  more  time  for  you/'  replied 
Lanstron,  who,  being  a  real  soldier  of  his  time,  did 
not  care  for  hero  worship.  It  was  entirely  contrary  to 
Partow's  teachings. 


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